Some Kind Of Happiness (Is Measured Out In Us)
by MaddieMozart
Summary: This is the revamp of "Sky of Blue and Sea of Green". Rated T for language and assault.
1. Chapter 1

"Don't wander or dawdle, yeah?" George craned his neck to see over the heads of our bodyguards, his expression inscrutable. "Just stick close."

"Oh, Jennifer knows better," Paul said affably as he lugged two suitcases out of the back of the car. He gave me a smile. "Don't you, Jen?"

I looked back at Paul, feeling nervousness and excitement come over me in increments. I returned his smile with a small one of my own, about all that I could muster. I nodded my assurance that I would indeed stay with the pack. Paul winked.

"You'll be just fine," he said, his confidence calming. I took a deep breath and managed a bigger smile.

"There's a girl," he said affectionately. He handed the two suitcases to George and retrieved two more for John, who was busy looking around at the already crowded airport parking lot, his face lighting to an excited smile. Ringo stood by him, both of their energies and excitements building off of each other. Ringo cracked a joke that I didn't quite catch; John laughed outright.

"Alright, boys, it's time!"

Brian Epstein, affectionately called "Eppy" by those who knew him well, threaded through several policemen in order to get to where we five stood. For the manager of a wildly successful boy band, he was young compared to others in the business, and much more likeable when he wanted to be. He glanced over each one of us, doing a head count, getting to me last. He smiled when he saw me.

"Ah, Miss Jennifer," he said pleasantly, using his customary _Miss_ title for me. "Are you ready for your first taste of stardom?"

I laughed. Of course, I wasn't really the star. The hundreds of girls were crowded just on the other side of the airport to see the boys, not me. Even still, it would be a completely new experience for me, one that I didn't know if I would like.

"Ready when you are, sir," I said. He nodded with a grin.

"Right-o," he said, addressing all of us now. "You all know the drill. Boys, keep special watch on Miss Jennifer here. She doesn't know what she's in for, I expect."

"Yes, sir," they chorused. Eppy nodded to the chief in charge, Sgt. Clifford, to indicate we were ready. Paul and John stood to my left and right, George flanking Paul, and Ringo appearing at John's side with his own share of the luggage. He grinned at me.

"Ok, Jen?" he asked. I nodded.

Eppy stood at the front of our elaborate procession. "And… off we go."

The next few, or several, minutes were a blur. The only thing I could hear was screaming girls from every quarter. I was crushed unintentionally against several people from all sides, pushed forward with the momentum of our group. The boys waved good-naturedly to the fans, smiling all the while. Ringo looked a tad paler than he had earlier, but smiled broadly nonetheless.

I felt myself stumble on the feet all around mine, but was afforded no chance to regain my balance. I would have fallen if not for John's automatic hand on my back, steadying me, even though he never took his eyes off the crowds. Grateful, I decided to leave my thanks until he could hear it.

"Oi!" came a call from one of the police officers. "Watch these young ladies on the right!"

Several police broke off from the group to contain the influx of girls that had broken through the barriers. They ran at us – well, at the boys – crying and screaming. For some reason, the sudden movement of the police to check the girls' progress and the girls themselves made a wash of anxiety go over me. I reached out and grabbed the hand nearest me, seeking assurance; it happened to be Paul's. He checked back over his shoulder, giving me a brief once-over, and gave my hand a reassuring squeeze.

We were pushed up the steps to the airplane, making staying upright even more difficult. I eventually managed to stumble up to the top of the roll-away steps; when I did, I took a second to catch my breath amid the excitement. There were so many people here, just to see the boys off to their undisclosed vacation. We were high enough to see the activity bustling below us: police officers blocked the stairs and still others manned the gates where teenagers massed. The excitement and adrenaline was almost palpable, rolling in waves from the crowd.

I felt someone nudge me. I looked down; George stood two steps below me, looking up with a mix of amusement and teasing impatience. He nodded behind me.

"They're awaiting you aboard the aircraft, ma'am," he said, encouraging me to move forward. I flushed slightly.

"Sorry," I said, turning and ducking into the airplane. George followed, his hands full with his bags. "I guess I just got so caught up in it all."

He nodded, slightly distracted, though still with one ear on our conversation. "It's a strange experience. I did the same my first couple times."

I let him get by so he could put his luggage up, standing to the side as Eppy got everyone organized and settled. It wasn't a large airplane, but it was fancy. It was one of those that have seats facing each other, beige-carpeted floors, and plenty of windows for us to look out of. Having never ridden in an airplane, I was excited for takeoff.

When the crowd inside the aircraft had thinned, some people going off and others retreating to the back room, Eppy addressed us.

"It's a rather long flight to the Bahamas, as we know," he said smartly. "So, settle in for the long haul. I'll be in the back room with the other _adults_ – " he gave us a teasing smile – "if you need anything. Otherwise, don't get into trouble."

"Bye, Eppy," we called after him as he pulled the door to the back cabin shut behind him.

"Oh, what a time," John said with a sigh, flopping into his seat.

"Indeed," Paul agreed, settling into his own seat next to John.

Ringo made to sit beside John, but John took the liberty of throwing up the armrest and occupying the third seat on the row before he could. John didn't notice what he'd done until Ringo crossed to the opposite row. John immediately sat up, laughing.

"Sorry, Rings," John said, half amused and half sheepish. "You can sit here if you like."

Ringo laughed as he sat across from Paul, waving John off. "It's alright," he said. "You take it."

Paul rubbed a hand over his face, then looked over at Ringo. "You ok, mate?"

Ringo nodded, his face already regaining the color he'd lost in the crowd. "Yeah, I'm fine," he said. Ringo had a certain anxiety when it came to crowds, but he never let it beat him, which we all admired.

"It scares me half to death," he said, "but I love it. I love the kids." He shrugged hopelessly, laughing at himself.

"What about you?" George asked me, sitting between me and Ringo. "Alright?"

I shrugged. "It was… exhausting," I said. They nodded in agreement. "It was fun, I guess. Just… strange." I looked around at the four familiar, kind faces that I loved. "Thanks for getting me through it."

Paul winked. "We've got your back, Jen. Never you fear."

Other than the slight fear for my life at takeoff, our flight was rather pleasant. We spent the first few hours chatting and just hanging out, something we hadn't done in a long time. With the boys at press conferences, concerts, television shows, and the studio, we hardly ever had time to just sit down and enjoy each other's company. I was allowed to attend some parties and Eppy made sure that I got to stay backstage for most of the concerts, but we were always on the go. Our five-flat house was the only place we could get some peace and down-time, and even there, the boys were stressed about various things and I was still attending some music classes at the Royal Conservatory of the Arts.

We'd first come up with the idea for a vacation earlier this year, in mid-January, when stress was particularly high. Perhaps it was the bleak winter that made us so stir-crazy. Even so, while Eppy and the others were looking for opportunities to get us out of it for a while, he told us we wouldn't be able to until the summer, at least.

We all settled in to grin and bear it until the end of April, in which we were promised a ten-day vacation in the Bahamas where we could be completely off the grid. No press, no fans, no deadlines. No one would know where we were going except for our small escort, and we'd be worry-free until we arrived back in London.

I sighed in contentment, looking around the cabin of the airplane at the boys. John was asleep, curled in his double seat, using his wadded-up jacket as a pillow. Ringo was sitting at a window seat, taking pictures of the sky with his new Polaroid. Paul and George talked animatedly about the party they had attended the night before.

"I told the news lady that I didn't want to talk about it, you know," George was saying. "I wasn't going to just bash you all in front of the whole world."

Paul's brow knit. "What did she say?" he asked. "Did she ask you about it?"

George cocked his head on either side, a soft _crack_ accompanying each movement. "Well, yeah. She said she wanted to know what I thought of that new article about 'dissention in the ranks', or what have you." George shook his head with a short laugh, as if it was the silliest idea he'd ever heard. "She wanted to know did we secretly dislike each other, or something to that effect."

Paul snorted. "They don't know the half of it," he joked. George laughed.

"That's what I told her, actually," he said, propping his right ankle on his left knee, his leg bouncing.

Paul gave him a half-incredulous, half-amused look. "Did you really?" he asked.

"That very thing," George confirmed. He breathed a laugh as if remembering something humorous about the story. "She kind of, I dunno, gasped or something and put her hand to her heart."

"Bet that one gets out in the morning paper," Paul said with a laugh.

George shrugged. "I told her I was joking, and I said something like, 'I really do love all of them like brothers, and we love making music together'."

Ringo gave a short laugh from behind his Polaroid where he was still snapping pictures from the window seat. "God, George, you're so sappy."

George smiled. "I had to say something, or the poor woman would have had a heart attack. I couldn't have that on my conscience. Besides," he said, more seriously, "it's true. I wouldn't lie about how it is with all of us. I mean, we are like brothers. Times aren't always perfect, but that's the way it is in a family."

He looked down at his feet as he said this, rubbing the back of his neck like he did when he was nervous. We all smiled to ourselves. Usually so reserved, George only once in a while said things like that; when he did, it was a treasure to us.

"Well, she came and talked to me as well," Paul said, shifting focus to himself, which I'm sure George was grateful for. "She wanted to know about where we were going on vacation, and I looked at her like, 'bloody hell, woman, you think I'd tell you?'."

Listening to them talk, I felt drowsiness come over me. I blinked, trying to clear my head. The excitement of today and the late night of yesterday were catching up with me. I closed my eyes for a moment, not intending to actually fall asleep, but was jerked awake when my chin hit my chest.

"George," Paul said, nodding in my direction. "Looks like you got a nodder."

George turned to me. His expression softened as he glanced over me.

"Lay your head, then, Jen," he said, shifting so that his shoulder was accessible. I settled against him, leaning my head on his shoulder. In minutes, I was sound asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

We arrived in the Bahamas after dark. We had all been awake to see the sun setting gloriously on the horizon, made even more beautiful by our vantage point. After the sun had set, though, we were eager to touch down and start the vacation we'd been dreaming about for months.

Our excitement dwindled into fatigue, however, by the time we made it off the plane and into our cars and to our villa. Eppy and the others would be staying at the Winchester Hotel about a mile from us, but we had a beach house all to our own. I surveyed all that I could about our temporary home in the little light provided by the sliver of moon, but I couldn't tell much from the front of the house. It looked big, but not overly-grandiose. It seemed to have a multitude of windows, which would fill the house with sunlight come the daytime. It was a bungalow type of place, all colors and flora and natural light. I couldn't wait to explore it tomorrow.

We lugged our bags in, Eppy saying goodnight at the door, and set the many suitcases down in a disordered pile in the foyer. Crossing over the threshold, the house opened into a living room with plenty of inviting wicker-backed couches and chairs. A fireplace stood recessed to our right, in the middle of the stone wall. To the right of the fireplace was a hallway leading to what I assumed were bedrooms and bathrooms. Upon further investigation we discovered that the doorway to the right of the fireplace lead to a screened-in porch, which further opened to an oasis of an in-ground pool surrounded by a garden of tropical foliage.

To our left was another hallway identical to the one on our right. In the far left corner, a doorway and open bar gave glimpses of the kitchen. In front of us, on the far wall of the living room, were two huge glass doors that led out onto a patio, and from there, straight onto the beach. The slight moon shone and reflected in the dark water, waves breaking against the sand in a soothing rhythm.

Ringo crossed the room and lit a lamp on one of the side tables that flanked the couch. The warm light cast a soft glow on the room.

"Well, lads, I'm headed off to bed," he said, his voice in an undertone, perhaps brought on by the quietness of the house.

"Agreed," Paul said, matching his volume. "I'm assuming we'll have to bunk up…"

A quick investigation of the hallways affirmed his assumption. "Two bedrooms on each side, with a bath at the end of the hall," Paul told us. "You each take one, and I'll stay on the couch."

We were all quick to protest, but Ringo offered first, his ever-selfless attitude ready at the first warning of someone else's discomfort. "You can bunk with me, Paul."

"You sure?" Paul asked. Ringo scoffed, like Paul couldn't be sillier for suggesting it would be anything less than a pleasure to have him.

"Yes, I'm sure." Ringo looked around at the rest of us. "Now, all you children get in bed."

We laughed. "Yes, sir," we chorused, picking up our bags once again. Ringo, Paul, and George each gave me a quick kiss and "goodnight" before departing down the right-side hallway. I followed John down the left.

"Sleep tight, Jen," John said at his door. He threw his bags carelessly into his room and turned to me, his eyes alight with mischief. "Don't let the natives get ya. They're mighty ferocious at this hour."

My eyes widened in spite of myself. "John, you don't think – "

He laughed softly. "No, little girl, I don't really think that the natives are wild jungle people." He watched me and could see I was not completely reassured. He sobered, still smiling, and gave me a hug.

"You'll be just fine, Jenny-girl," he said. "No need to worry."

"Unless they really are wild jungle men," I said, my voice muffled against his shirt. He chuckled, releasing me.

"Go on to bed," he said pushing me affectionately towards my bedroom. "See you in the morning."

"Night," I said, opening the door. He gave me a smile and a wink.

"Goodnight, Jennifer." 

I took a few minutes to unpack what I needed for bed, deciding to wait until tomorrow to tackle all of my luggage. I brushed my teeth in the king-sized bathroom at the end of the hall and changed out of my travel clothes into my frilly blue shortie pajamas.

I got into my large, fluffy bed, its remarkably cool-temperatured pillows and blankets contrasting nicely to the warm air. I turned off the lamp on the bedside table, fully expecting fatigue to overtake me quickly.

It didn't. I lay in bed for quite some time, listening to the quiet night sounds of the waves outside, wondering what was wrong with me. Something was off, but I couldn't put a finger on it. I tossed and turned on my bed, unable to fall asleep.

Sometime later, a soft knock came on my door. Before I had a chance to answer, John peeked his head around the door.

"Jen?" he whispered. "You awake?"

I sat up. "Yeah," I said. "What's wrong?"

He shrugged, stepping into the doorway. I could see that he had tried to sleep, like I had, because he was wearing his brown-and-cream pajamas. I was secretly relieved that I wasn't the only one having a restless night.

"George and I were about to play a hand of cards and wondered if you'd like to join us." He gave me an uncertain look. "Unless I woke you, in which case –"

"You didn't," I said quickly. I disentangled myself from the blankets on the bed – which took considerable effort – and crossed to the doorway.

He raised a brow as I threw on my light robe. "You get out of bed like that every morning?"

I narrowed my eyes in mock seriousness, trying to retain some of my dignity. "Uh, pfftt, no."

His brows lifted as a smile played along his lips. "Sure. Jennifer Anne Dawson, paragon of grace."

I shoved him, his lack of movement embarrassing compared to the effort I'd put in, and he laughed.

"Come on, _your grace_ ," he said, playfully pushing me away. "George has a game of Rummy set up."

I followed him out into the living room that was still only illuminated by the one lamp, making a cozy and tranquil atmosphere. George had pulled up a chair in front of the cold fireplace and was dealing cards onto the coffee table. It seemed as if he, too, had not been able to get to sleep: he wore white and blue striped pajamas. He looked up as we entered.

"Ah, so you were awake," he said to me. "Thought so. Care to play a hand?"

"Sure," I said, not really having an inclination one way or the other. I sat on the floor at the end of the coffee table, and John sat on the couch opposite George. George pushed my cards towards me and continued to deal them.

"Where's Ringo and Paul?" I asked.

John shuffled through his hand. "Uh, they…" He moved two more cards, then looked up at me and gave me his attention. "Sleeping," he said.

"Really?" I asked, surprised. I did expect Paul to have gone straight and well to sleep, heavy sleeper that he was, but Ringo was a natural night-owl and could usually be found awake long after we'd gone to bed. That's why his bedroom was on the far end at home; he'd chosen it so that he could have his light on as long as he liked without disturbing us.

John nodded. "They were the only ones who didn't nap on the plane, so they were probably tired."

I looked over at George. "You slept on the plane?" I asked.

He nodded. "Not forever, but yeah. I did." He looked up at me. "Your go, Jen." 

After George had soundly beaten both John and me, I curled up on the couch next to John as they dealt another hand. I drew my robe closer around me and tucked my feet up next to him, nestling into the soft cushions. In between turns, John took the decorative blanket from the back of the couch and draped it over me.

Soon, the soft glow of the light and the boys' hushed conversation brought on the drowsiness that had evaded me. As I let my eyes close and my body relax, I understood why I hadn't been able to sleep earlier. I was so used to sharing our five-flat home with our open bedrooms that sleeping behind closed doors was unfamiliar to me. So, naturally, it was here around them that I was able to sleep.

"Looks like we've lost one," George commented, his soft tone joking. I heard John chuckle.

"She's just where she knows," he said affectionately. I felt a soft kiss on my head. "She's home."


	3. Chapter 3

I woke to brilliant, warm sunlight flooding in through all the windows and the smell of coffee. I didn't get up immediately, but relished the completely relaxed attitude I had towards the coming day. No work, no writing, no _sorry, Jen, catch you later_. I had my little family all to myself for ten whole days with no one and nothing else to take up their time. I stretched languidly, a soft smile crossing my face.

"Should we wake her?"

I paused, eavesdropping on the conversation going on in the kitchen between Paul and someone else. The sounds of coffee being made and the popping of the toaster punctuated the speaking.

"I wouldn't," I heard John answer. "She was up rather late last night."

"Why?" Paul asked. "Is she alright?"

John didn't answer for a moment. "She just couldn't fall asleep," he said finally. "I imagine sleeping in her own room was strange for her."

"It would be," Paul agreed. "But you and George…?"

"We were playing cards, 'cause we weren't tired, and she came out here and slept on the couch while we did. Seemed to do the trick."

"Good," Paul said. "I'm glad."

I felt my heart warm as I listened to their conversation, spoken in soft voices probably to keep from waking me. I loved these boys.

Ringo came in then, changed from his sailor-blue pajamas into a white button-down and tight-waisted jeans. "Morning, lads," he greeted John and Paul. They answered in kind. Ringo looked over at me and noticed I was up.

"Oh, hi, Jennifer. Morning."

I straightened, my game up. I returned Ringo's cheery smile as I stood. "Good morning."

Both John and Paul leaned to be able to see under the bar. They were both dressed, Paul in a black tee and jeans, and John in a lavender button-down and jeans. I felt mildly out of place in my pajamas, but not uncomfortably so.

"Listening in, were we?" John teased, his light brown eyes sparkling. I flushed.

"Um, well, no – "

Paul laughed, and John gave me a smile. "Did you sleep well after all?" John asked.

I nodded. "Yes, thank you."

Ringo looked between the boys and me. "What's this?" he asked, his tone concerned. "Are you alright, Jennifer?"

I gave him a nod of assurance. "I'm fine, now. I couldn't sleep last night. But it turned out ok."

He nodded slowly, not altogether convinced, his blue eyes still on me. "Well, if you're sure."

I smiled at him. Each of these boys really did care about me, really did love me.

"I am," I assured him. He relaxed then.

"Breakfast, anyone?" Paul offered from the kitchen.

"Ooh, me!"

We all turned to see George come out from the hallway, still buttoning the navy shirt he wore with jeans. He looked up when he was finished.

"What?" he asked, looking around at all of us when we didn't say anything.

After a moment more of silence, we all burst into peals of laughter. George was still confused.

"Don't call a man to breakfast unless you intend to feed him," he said, a smile slowly forming.

"Here," Paul said, still laughing. "Come and get it."

George, Ringo, and I sat at the bar as John and Paul handed us plates of eggs and toast. Over our breakfast, we discussed what we would do that day.

"I say we walk the beach and see what we can find," John suggested. Nodding, we agreed that it was a fine idea. I excused myself to change into white, high-waisted shorts and a navy-and-white striped tee, an outfit that I had seen in the Montgomery Ward summer catalogue and bought specially for this trip. A red ribbon in my ponytailed hair and big, round sunglasses completed my ensemble, and I was ready for a day out on the beach.

* * *

"No, Paul, don't even think about it – !"

I squealed as Paul brought the sand crab in his hand nearer to me, making as if to throw it at me. He laughed as I stepped behind George, using him as my shield. George chuckled.

"It's just a crab, Jennifer," he said, amused. "It won't hurt you."

"Oh yes it will," I maintained. "Don't let him come near me with it."

George shrugged. "I guess you wouldn't like what I've got, then?" he asked. He held his hand out and opened it, palm up, to reveal the two sand crabs there. I shrieked and ran from him, his and Paul's laughter following me.

"You haven't got any sand crabs, have you?" I asked John and Ringo as I came up to them.

They looked at each other, bemused. "Nary a one, my dear," Ringo answered, looking back at me. "Why? Do you?"

I wrinkled my nose. "Never. Paul and George like them, and they're harassing me with them."

Ringo and John laughed together.

"It's just a crab," John said.

"That's what George said," I agreed. "But I still don't like them."

John and Ringo walked me back down to the water, shielding me from any further "harassment", as I'd said. Paul and George teased me endlessly, but gave up their futile effort to get me to appreciate the sand crabs as anything other than weird.

It was agreed that it was necessary to change into actual swimsuits before entering the cool, inviting water. We trekked back to the house and had a quick lunch, then dressed in our bathing suits. It wasn't planned, I'm sure, but all four boys' suits were remarkably similar. Each wore a white shirt; Ringo and Paul wore blue shorts, in different shades, and John and George wore black shorts. I, having purchased new bathing suits for the occasion, decided on a blue one piece I'd seen in _Vogue_ a few weeks ago. Smart white buttons marched up from my navel to the white-trimmed breast, and the cut was flattering and modest to my curvy figure.

Out on the beach, I marveled in the beauty of the day. The sun was high and bright, the sky was dazzlingly blue, and the water was clear as crystal. Earlier in the day we'd found a rocky outcropping right above the water that afforded an unobstructed view of the surrounding beach. Ringo snapped pictures on his Polaroid of all of us, posing on the rocks or just candids of us playing together. George took over the camera for a little bit so that Ringo could be in the pictures, too.

* * *

"Come on, then, ya sly dogs. Show us what you got."

Paul beckoned to me, his eyes narrowed, and couldn't keep from grinning. George walked forward in the waist-deep water, taking me with him; I sat atop his shoulders for a game of chicken against Paul and John. Paul wobbled a bit on John's shoulders, but managed to keep his balance.

"Seems as if you're doing just fine on your own," George joked at Paul. "You won't need us to knock you off, will you?"

Paul cuffed John lightly, knocking John's newsboy hat askew. "Steady, my steed," Paul admonished, his voice a playful imitation of nobility. George giggled, something he rarely did and was almost always embarrassed by, but I thought it was adorable.

George and John slowly advanced towards each other, hard-put to keep their balance amid the waves and their passengers. Paul and I readied ourselves, trying to look intimidating and nearly always failing; we couldn't keep a straight face for the life of us.

We finally came within reaching distance of each other, and it was on. Paul, although much stronger than me, could barely keep his balance atop John, giving me an advantage. We wrestled as much as we could, hands gripping each other's, trying to throw the other off.

I had almost gained the upper hand in the battle when John gave a cry of pain and disappeared beneath the water.

"John!" I shrieked, scrambling off George's shoulders and swimming over to where John had been. My heart pounded as I looked around me, struggling to find John amid the breaking waves. The sun was beginning its descent from high noon and was reflecting off the water, making it impossible to see under it –

Something surfaced right beside me. I yelped, jumping away from whatever it was.

It was then that I registered laughter. "Blimey, Jen, didn't know that you cared that much."

Understanding what had happened, I gave John a slap across the face, but my heart wasn't in it. I couldn't _really_ hit him.

"John Winston Lennon," I said crossly, calling him by his full name for emphasis. "You almost gave me a heart attack."

He laughed, but it was good-natured. "I'm sorry, Jennifer," he said sincerely. "Paul thought it'd be fun to give you a scare."

I looked at Paul, my mouth wide open in incredulity. "You were in on this too?"

He gave me a sheepish grin. "Yeah. Sorry, Jen."

I looked to George. "And you?"

He shook his head. "No, ma'am."

"Then why didn't you help me try to save him?" I asked, suspicious.

He shrugged. "I guess I don't love John that much."

John gasped dramatically. "George Harold Harrison," he said, mimicking me and making up a name for the middle-name-less George as he went.

We all laughed, me somewhat reluctantly. I wasn't completely mollified, but I knew a good-natured prank when I saw one. And with these boys, it was pretty often.

John patted his cheek where I'd slapped him. "Come and give us a kiss, eh?"

I grudgingly obliged, giving him a quick peck. After that, we all knew it to be forgiven and all tension vanished from our party.

I looked around. "Where's Ringo?"

They all looked over to the beach, where Ringo sat on a dune, photographing us all by his lonesome.

"What's he doing way up there?" I asked. The boys shrugged.

"Says he likes it up there," George said. I scoffed.

"Nonsense," I said. "I'll go get him."

I swam towards the beach until I could stand, walking up through the shallowing water until I reached dry land. I gathered my soaking wet hair as I walked, squeezing out the briny water from it and running my fingers through the tangles. I sighed. It was going to be painful brushing through it later tonight.

I reached the dune where Ringo was. He looked up at me as I arrived, lifting a hand to shade his eyes from the sun.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," I answered. "Why are you up here all alone?"

He shrugged. "Just lucky, I guess."

I frowned, holding out my hand to him. "Come on. You're coming to swim."

It was his turn to frown. He hesitated, like he was afraid to hurt my feelings. "I… I'm really ok, Jennifer. Thanks for asking, though."

I let my hand drop to my side. "I know you don't like the ocean, Ringo," I said. It was true; although he enjoyed swimming in pools, he wasn't particularly keen on swimming in water with current, especially not the ocean with its constant riptides. "But this is a family vacation." I cracked a smile, using my best puppy dog eyes on him. "It's not complete without you."

He studied me a moment, then sighed. "Alright, Jen. I'll go."

I grinned at him as he stood. "I knew you would."

He gave me a reluctant smile. "Yeah, well, count yourself lucky. You're probably about the only one who could wheedle a yes out of me."

I gave him a triumphant look. What he said was true for all the boys, and I took great pride in being the apple of their eyes. I took his hand on a whim, and we swung our interlocked hands back and forth all the way down to the water. George, Paul, and John, upon seeing our approach, moved up to the shallower water to accommodate Ringo, which made my heart warm.

"Sweet-talked you, did she?" John asked Ringo. Ringo gave a short laugh.

"Master of persuasion, that one is," he said.

"It was the eyes, wasn't it?" George added.

Paul swam over. "It's terrible, the way she twists the arm."

I laughed, half-amused, half-incredulous. "I'm right here, guys."

"She's right there, fellas," Ringo told the others.

We broke off in peals of laughter, the charade up. John organized a game of Marco Polo in which Paul was Marco, bringing great amusement to the rest of us as Paul was particularly bad at it. We played that you couldn't win until you'd caught everybody; John went up on the beach, confusing poor Paul to death. The rest of us tried and failed to keep from laughing. Eventually, Paul opened his eyes and saw John on the beach, bringing forth a great deal of good-natured complaining from Paul. The rest of us thought it was hilarious, though we empathized with him. We made John be Marco next.


	4. Chapter 4

Something cold landed on my cheek; I lazily brushed my hand over it, and my fingers came away wet. I sat up, blinking, waiting for my eyes to focus. More water landed on me, creating tiny dark spots on the towel I was tanning on. I raised my face towards the steadily darkening sky and felt that it was starting to rain.

In my dazed state, it didn't occur to me until a few seconds later that maybe we should head inside, and in a hurry. I scrambled up from the sand.

"Guys," I said loudly to the boys, who were each lying on beach towels and probably napping. We had crashed for a "short rest" after swimming when the sun had started to descend, and even I had somewhat fallen asleep.

"Guys, get up," I said. "It's raining."

"Wha - ?" came John's dazed reply.

"It's raining," I repeated. "We have to take the stuff in."

"Oh," he said. And then, "Oh!"

He got up hurriedly, grabbing whatever was in reach and consolidating it into a pile. "Come on, lads," he said to the other boys. "Up we get."

It only took a few seconds for them to get up, the rain having started on a steady drizzle. We tried to gather up our stuff, but it was really starting to come down.

"Leave whatever can get wet," Paul told us. We agreed, leaving beach chairs, coolers, and all the other things we'd brought that could withstand a little rain shower. John managed to grab his book before it got soaked, and Ringo wrapped his camera in a towel, holding it close to his chest.

We sprinted towards the house, our group mood strangely jubilant despite the weather. It had been a long since we'd just let loose and done something like run in the rain; it was freeing, in a way.

By the time we got back to the house, we were soaked to the skin. We squeezed through the sliding glass door, dripping water all over the hardwood floor, out of breath and grinning from ear to ear.

"That was bloody good fun," John breathed, running his hands through his soaking wet hair. George laughed.

"It was pretty fun, wasn't it?" he said. "Been a while since I've done something like that."

We all took quick showers, me going last because I knew I would take the longest trying to wash out my hair. When I got out, I threw on some shorts and a t-shirt, not really trying to look cute or anything. I struggled for several minutes in my room, trying to brush out my still-tangled hair, having to pull so hard that it made my eyes water.

"Jennifer!" Paul called from the living room. "We're playing _Blitzkrieg_ if you want to join us."

I frowned at my reflection. "I'm brushing my hair," I said, slightly whiny.

"We'll wait for you," George chimed in. I sighed.

"No, go ahead and start," I said, not wanting to make them wait for an eternity while I tamed this wild mane of hair, something I felt sure they would do because they loved me enough. "It'll take forever for me to finish."

"Come out here and I'll brush it," Ringo said.

I walked out to the living room, dejectedly holding my hairbrush. They all looked up as I entered, varying degrees of sympathy and amusement in their expressions.

"Come here," Ringo said again, patting the seat next to him on the couch. I went over to him, stepping over arms and legs as I did. John moved to the side to give me more room.

"Brush?" Ringo asked. I handed him the soft-handled torture device, bracing myself for the inevitable pain. I waited, wincing in anticipation, but nothing came. Only a light pressure and a soft _schick, schick_ came.

"Am I doing it too hard?" he asked after a second, leaning so I could see him. I shook my head.

"No," I said. "It's perfect. Thank you."

He leaned back, starting in on my hair once more, his touch gentle and his force carefully exerted to cause the least amount of pain. I saw John look at Ringo over me, a smug smile playing on his lips.

"'Perfect', she says," John said ruefully. He met my eyes, a smirk still on his face. "Bloody hell, little girl," he said affectionately. "You should see his face. You've just made Ringo's day." 

A whole game of _Blitzkrieg_ later, my hair was glossy and soft, and it was still raining. There had only been a few less-than-pleasant moments in the brushing-ordeal, during which Ringo apologized profusely.

George and John made sandwiches for dinner while Ringo, Paul, and I set up the board game _Mystery Date_. I remembered the first time I'd brought it to our five-flat home, as a joke, and we'd all sat down to play it.

"It says 'for girls 6 to 14'," George had said desolately, trying to get out of it.

In response, Ringo had said, "That's a suggestion, George. We're the Beatles and we'll play what we bloody well want to."

We had eventually converted George to enjoying the game, and it was now a longtime favorite of ours. Intended for preteen girls, as George had so astutely observed, it was a laugh a minute to play it with four twenty-something boys. One magazine interviewer actually asked the boys what their favorite board game was; sharing a look, they said something along the lines of _Civil War_ or _Oh-Wah-Ree_ , trying to maintain some of their masculinity.

"'Swap one card with another player'," Paul read from the square he'd landed on. He looked around at us, deciding who to swap with. "Hmm… George," he decided, handing a card to George who reluctantly handed over one of his own cards.

"George was just about to try for the bowling date, too," Ringo said, laughingly sympathetic to George's plight. Paul shuffled his cards around in his hand, studying them.

"Aha!" he said triumphantly. "I've got a full outfit. I'm going for it."

"Who's your date, Paul?" I asked.

"Uh…" he looked through his cards one more time. "The skiing chap, I think."

He spun the door handle, waiting until it stopped before opening the door and revealing the mystery date behind it.

We all groaned. "Bad luck, Macca," John said.

Paul had gotten the "dud" date, a poorly dressed fellow with tousled hair and a five o'clock shadow. He mock-pouted, putting his cards down on the coffee table.

"I was ready for my date, and he didn't even show," he said dejectedly. We all laughed.


	5. Chapter 5

The soft light of early morning came in through the window above my bed as I woke the next morning, letting me know that the night's rain was ended and we had another day to play in the sun.

I walked out to the living room, wondering what I'd find. John was still sleeping on the couch, his face more relaxed in sleep than it ever was in waking. Right outside the sliding glass doors, George was sitting cross-legged facing the sea, playing his sitar. I didn't know he'd brought it with us, but I recognized the tune as one he particularly fancied of the ones Ravi Shankar had taught him. Though I knew I wouldn't get any cross words from him if I did, I decided not to say good morning; he greatly preferred not to be interrupted during his practice sessions.

I meandered into the kitchen, half-heartedly looking for breakfast. Ducking my head to see under the bar, I saw that Ringo and Paul were lounging on two chairs in the screened-in porch and were chatting in low, early-morning voices. Paul methodically cut slices from an apple for his breakfast. Ringo took a pull from the cigarette he held between his ringed fingers, turning to the side to exhale a puff of smoke.

"Morning, Jennifer," he said, noticing me.

"Morning," I said, giving a slight wave in their direction.

"There's some tea on the stove if you want some," Paul offered, using his knife to gesture behind me to the silver tea kettle on the stove. I reached up into the cabinet and retrieved a mug, making myself a cup of Earl Grey, the boys' personal favorite and a taste I had learned to associate with comfort. Stirring a spoonful of sugar into my tea, I joined them on the porch.

The comfortably furnished porch led out to a large pool, surrounded by tropical plants of all shapes and colors. The veritable jungle blocked the pool from view of the road in front of the house but thinned out on the side nearest the ocean, giving us an unrestricted view of the beach and the sunrise on the horizon.

"Apple?" Paul asked, holding out a slice. I crossed to his chair and took the proffered fruit, sitting on the arm of his chair as I did.

"What's the plan for today?" I asked, nibbling on my apple slice.

"There's not one…?" Paul said noncommittally. "Hang around, I guess."

"We could walk on the beach," Ringo suggested, twisting his cigarette against the bottom of the ashtray on the side table. He looked up at us. "Hm?"

Paul shrugged. "Sure. Just us? Or should we invite the others?"

"George is practicing his sitar," I said. "And John's still asleep."

Ringo snorted. "'Course he is," he said, standing. "Alright then. Let's go for a walk, shall we?"

I put my mug down on the side table, following Ringo and Paul out through the sliding glass doors, past George.

"We're going for a walk," Paul told George. "We'll be back."

George nodded, not saying anything so he could focus on playing.

"Sorry," I mouthed, apologizing for our interruption. He gave me a rueful smile, one that I knew conveyed an _oh well, what can you do?_ sort of attitude. I gave a short laugh, understanding what he meant. With our family, you just couldn't expect perfection from any sector, and that was alright. It was the way it was meant to be.

* * *

I dug around in the soft sand for a few seconds until I found a shell that caught my eye as something special. "Ooh, Paul, look at this one!"

I held up the broken conch shell for Paul's inspection, watching as the newly risen sun glanced off its pearly surface. He smiled.

"That's a good one, Jen," he said appreciatively. He looked down at the shell in his hands, a little grey thing that had a crack running up it.

"I can't seem to find a good one," he said, chucking the shell towards the ocean. Somehow, mid-flight, it caught a gust of air and hit Ringo square in the back of the head.

"Bloody hell!"

Paul and I slapped a hand over our mouths to keep from laughing outright.

"Oh, sorry, Ringo!" Paul said, laughing. Ringo straightened and turned towards us, rubbing the back of his head, an exasperated smile playing on his face.

"Watch where you throw stuff," he admonished, amused.

"I will," Paul promised smilingly. "But hey, look at the shell Jen's got."

Ringo's brow went up as I showed him my shell.

"That's a fine one, love," he said approvingly. "Very nice."

"Shall we show the others?" Paul offered.

"I think we shall," I said, brushing the sand from my knees. "Unless you're not ready to go in yet."

They both shrugged.

"It's been quite a nice walk," Ringo said. "Thank you both for accompanying me."

"Even after I chucked a shell at your head?" Paul laughed. "Gee, Rings, you must like us or something."

Ringo chuckled. "Something like that."

"Gor blimey," Paul said breathlessly, letting me down from my piggy-back ride in front of the back doors of the house. "That was a workout."

I gave him a good whack on the shoulder. "James McCartney," I said, playfully aghast.

He laughed. "No, god, that's not what I meant – "

"He meant it was the shells in your pocket," Ringo assured me jokingly. "They're probably really heavy, yeah?"

Paul looked back at Ringo, nodding vigorously. "That's definitely what I meant. That and the sand – phew!" He drew the back of his hand over his forehead in mock exhaustion.

I laughed, placated. "Of course," I said. "I knew that all along. 'Cause you'd _never_ say anything like what I thought you said, right?"

"Not in a million," Ringo said, giving Paul's hair a playful ruffle as he went inside. We followed, noticing that George was no longer sitting outside.

Paul gave me an anxious look. "Ringo's right, you know," he said. "I'd never – "

"I know," I said, smiling at him. I patted his cheek affectionately. "You're a good egg."

He gave me a chuffing grin, pulling on invisible suspenders. "Ah-ha, indeed," he said in a posh accent. "Paul McCartney, the good egg."

I laughed and pushed him playfully. "You're awful," I said. "But I love you."


	6. Chapter 6

"Yeah, and put your third finger right… there. That's it. Perfect."

I strummed downwards once, testing out the chord that John had just shown me. He leaned back in his chair, nodding.

"Yep," he said. "That's an F chord."

I strummed it a couple more times.

"Switch it out with the C chord," he advised. I looked up at him, uncertain, then back at my fingers, still uncertain. I tried to form the C chord like he'd shown me earlier.

"Like… like that?" I looked back up at him, seeking guidance. He leaned forward again, his hands automatically going to fix mine.

"Almost," he said. "Just move this finger to… here." He moved my pointer finger over a string. "There you go."

"Sorry," I said softly, feeling my face go red. He looked up at me, a bemused smile crossing his face.

"What're you sorry for?" he asked. "It's just a chord. You'll get it."

"Yeah, Jennifer," Paul chimed in from where he lounged in his own chair, his own special leftie guitar in hand, playing random chords with no real purpose. "Don't sweat it. Nobody's perfect."

"Except me," George said, bent over his ukulele, playing a rock-n-roll lick on it that sounded strange in the tinny sound of the instrument. Paul nodded.

"'Scept George," he agreed. George gave a snort of mirth, shaking his head.

"You can't be half as bad as me on the guitar, Jen," Ringo said from my left. He sat on the ground, a pair of bongos in his lap. He thumped them absent-mindedly, nodding to me as if to affirm what he'd said. I smiled, grateful for his admission.

We had decided, when the rained ended and the sun came back out, to walk back to the rocky outcropping we had found earlier. We packed up beach chairs, a cooler of snacks, and several instruments. It was only a two minute walk from the house, and once there, the boys built a fire from driftwood on the flat-topped gathering of rocks where we set up camp.

"Does she know enough to play a song?" Paul asked John.

"Not quite yet," he answered. "We've got to learn at least one more chord."

The next few minutes were spent thoroughly teaching me a couple basic chords. When I knew them well enough to switch between them without fumbling every note, we gathered closer around the fire to play together. John grabbed his guitar from where it leaned against his chair.

"I'm usually rhythm," he told me. "But since you're being that, I guess I'll play lead with George on his fairy guitar."

Paul counted us in and started us on a slow, easy song as he played bass. Ringo tapped out a steady beat for us on his bongos. John and George harmonized the lead on their guitar and ukulele. I kept up, for the most part, playing my chords whenever John said I should. He and the other boys counted it out for me and told me together when the switches should happen. It ended up being not half bad.

"Excellent work, Jennifer," Paul said, ending with a flourish. "Now let's see if Ringo can't do as well."

Ringo looked up from his bongos. "Wait, what?"

After some cajoling on our parts, Ringo consented to switching places with me. Actually, we all switched up. I got to sit with the bongos as Ringo took the guitar I was using; I think it was George's. George said he wanted to do the instructing this time and took John's guitar and handed off the "fairy guitar" to John, who, despite having degraded it earlier, happily plunked away on it. Paul was the only one who couldn't switch, being left-handed.

We all encouraged Ringo in his aspirations on a stringed instrument. He caught on fairly quickly, having received a smattering of guitar instruction earlier in the year from the boys. Soon, we were able to play another song with me on bongos, Ringo on rhythm guitar, George on bass, and Paul and John playing lead.

* * *

I gazed into the blue-flamed driftwood fire as it sent up sparks into the starry night sky, a feeling of well-being encompassing me. Paul played lazily on his guitar, his melodies slow and soft. Ringo and George conversed amiably in low voices, their occasional laughter breaking through the night air. John leaned forward in his seat, holding the book he read at an angle where the firelight enabled him to see. I sat and soaked in the comfort and companionship of the four boys I had come to know and to love as brothers.

I ran a hand over my face. It had been a full day, wonderfully full. It had been so long since I had been able to just play with the boys, to forget about all our worries and just focus on our family. Sure, my hair was knotty and briny, and I had gotten slightly sunburnt, but it was worth it.

I got up from my chair and walked to the other side of the fire pit, headed towards the cooler that sat on the far side of Paul's beach chair. I tried to watch my feet carefully, noting the hazardous, uneven top of the rocks we were on. In the flickering light of the fire that cast odd shadows onto the rocks, I misstepped into a large crack in the rock and nearly fell flat on my face. Paul lurched up, his fingers drawing across the strings of his guitar with a loud _twang_ , and managed to get ahold of my arm to keep me from falling.

"Alright, Jennifer?" he asked, his voice showing the worry I'd caused him. I grasped his forearm to steady myself as I pried my foot loose from the crack.

"Yeah," I said, grimacing. He kept his hand on my arm until I was seated next to him, inspecting my ankle for any injury. I was a little scraped, but other than that, I was fine.

"You're sure you're ok?" Paul asked, still worried.

"Peachy," I assured him, letting my foot down. "Thanks for saving me."

He breathed a laugh. "You're welcome. What did you need, anyway?"

I motioned with my head towards the cooler behind me. "Water."

He turned and retrieved a bottle of water for me. I thanked him and drank copiously.

He relaxed then, satisfied that I was truly not in any real pain, and leaned back in his chair. He played a spontaneous, bouncy tune on his guitar, making up nonsense words to go with it as he went.

"How was your day?" he asked, able to chat and play at the same time. I looked over at him.

"Absolutely wonderful," I said, meaning it. He smiled.

"I thought so too," he said sincerely. "It's really nice to be out here by ourselves. I know it's been tough for you with all our work."

I shrugged, feeling the tiniest bit bashful. "Tough for me?" I asked. "You guys do all the hard stuff."

He smiled again, his expression sad. "Maybe, but we've got a lot to occupy our minds. You have to be at home or school and we hardly spend time with you. All that time alone can't be easy."

I didn't say anything, knowing what he said to be true. It was hard on the guys, I knew, to be always on the go. But at least they had something _to_ do. I had to be away from them a lot of the time with nothing to fill the empty spaces that they left.

"I will tell you this, though," he continued. "We miss you very much when we're away. We wish we could spend more time with you, and we hate not being there for you as much as we are."

I looked back at my feet, struggling to get myself under control. For some reason, what he said made me want to cry. I missed them terribly while they were away, of course, but it was even worse to have them in London and still just as unreachable.

I took a shuddering breath, running a hand over my cheek to catch the few tears that had fallen. I looked up and gave him a wobbly smile.

"Thanks," I said, determined not to make this vacation about our troubles. Those were things we could work out when we got home. "I love you guys," I said. "I'll stick with it if you will."

Paul gave me a wink. "There's no getting out of it now, sister," he said. "You've got us all wrapped around your little finger. You're stuck with us whether you like it or not."


	7. Chapter 7

I blinked against the bright light that woke me. I sat up, dazed, trying to register where exactly I was. I waited until my gaze had focused, taking in my surroundings in a hazy head.

"Oh," I said to myself. I knew where I was.

All four boys were asleep in various places and positions around the cold fire pit. John had his book over his eyes. Ringo was wrapped in a beach towel, his face barely visible. George was sprawled out on his beach chair. Paul had his head leaned on his fist that was propped perilously close to the edge of the armrest.

I rubbed my eyes, trying to remember the final events of last night. I didn't remember falling asleep, but I did know in the last memory I had, all the boys had been awake.

I smiled to myself. We'd played several heated rounds of Slap-Jack and a few games of Zip-Zap-Zop before we devised a story-telling game of our own. Each person came up with a sentence made of five words, and everybody had to build off of what the person before them said. We'd go five rounds, completing the story by the end of the fifth round. John started us off with "My grandmother married a goat," setting in motion an entertaining story that we all added to. Come to think of it, I couldn't remember how the story ended. I'd probably unintentionally fallen asleep in the middle of the game.

I stood, stretching hugely. I ached all over from sleeping outside on my beach chair. I tentatively reached a hand to my hair, but then thought better of it. I didn't even want to know how horribly knotty it surely was. Running and hand over my face, I felt the briny, sandy quality to my slightly sunburnt skin.

I peeked around at the boys, still all asleep. It wouldn't take that long to walk back to the house and get a quick shower; they'd probably still be asleep by the time I got back. I nodded, affirming this to myself.

Even still, I felt bad just leaving then here without saying anything about where I was going. I shook Ringo gently by the shoulder.

"Hmm, what?" he asked sleepily.

"I'm going to shower," I said. "I'll be back in a minute."

He shifted his position, expression indifferent, still half-asleep. "Sounds good," he said. "Wake us when you get back."

"Ok," I agreed, turning to go.

"Hey, Jennifer?" Ringo said. I turned back around.

"Yeah?"

"Bring back my camera, ok?" he said.

"Sure," I said. He'd left it home when we came out to the rocks to keep it safe. Also, he wouldn't be able to get any decent quality pictures at night, so there was no reason to have it out.

"Be careful with it," he warned.

I smiled. "You mean you actually don't want me to dash it against the rocks or throw it in the water?"

He gave a short laugh. "If you wouldn't mind." He rolled back over, throwing the corner of his towel over his face to block the sunlight. I clambered down the rocks as quietly as I could, not bothering to grab any of my stuff. I trekked back down the beach towards the house, soaking in the warm morning sun, cooled by the waves lapping at my feet. I picked up interesting shells as I went, not really in any hurry.

Back at the house, I got a quick shower. It took me a solid ten minutes to brush through my hair. I threw on some shorts and a tee, not really caring what I wore. I braided my hair down my back as a preventative in the event that we swam some more, which we probably would.

I threw some granola bars in a lunch bag, knowing that the boys would be starving when they finally got up. I slung the bag over my shoulder and putting the Polaroid strap around my neck, letting the camera bounce lightly against my chest. I headed out back towards the rocks, still at a leisurely pace.

I was almost back at camp, having reached the high dunes that obscured it from view until you scaled them, when something caught my eye. Slowing my pace, I looked to the left at the dune where the flash had come from. Nothing.

I took a step further, trying to see what it had been. Still nothing… - wait, there it was again. Something was definitely flashing from the tall grass on top of one of the dunes. It looked like the flicker of a cigarette lighter.

Curiosity overrode caution as I walked towards it, deviating from my path. I picked carefully over the rocks that were clustered together nearer to the dune, this area of the beach being a sort of offshoot from the jetties. I glanced quickly to where our camp should be; it was still there, and it looked as if some of the boys were up. I waved briefly and one of them waved back.

Turning my attention back to the flashing thing, I took another step closer to it, squinting to be able to see it better through the undulating dune grass.

I gasped and stumbled backwards, losing my footing and landing on the sand. There was a _person_ back there. I knew I had clearly seen a face, though I couldn't make out much about it. I scrambled to my feet, heart pounding, when whoever it was stepped through the grass.

"Wait, hey, hey!" he called as I made to run. "It's ok!"

Something in his voice made me pause. I still stayed at a distance, my breathing labored, surveying this mystery man. He was tall and dark-skinned; his brown eyes squinted against the bright sun. He took a pull from his cigarette, pocketing the lighter I'd seen earlier.

"Sorry I scared you," he said, a slight French tinge to his accent. "I was just… sitting."

I nodded slowly, still wary of him. It was more than a little weird that he was hiding in the dune grass and smoking first thing in the morning. Still, maybe he wasn't supposed to be smoking and didn't want to get caught.

"It's ok," I said. "I guess I shouldn't have been snooping." I gave him a slightly teasing look. "But then again, it's not every day you see somebody creepily sitting on a dune."

He flashed me a smile, his pearly whites showing in contrast to his dark skin in a beautiful way, and I felt myself smile back.

"What's your name?" he asked.

I twisted my fingers together, suddenly nervous, but in a good way. "Oh, um, Jennifer. My name's Jennifer Anne Dawson." I looked up at him. "What's yours?"

"Isaac," he said. He flicked ashes from the end of his cigarette.

"It's not every day you meet someone named Jennifer," he said casually. "It's a pretty name."

"Uh-huh," I said intelligently, sort of lost in his dark eyes. I blushed. "I mean, ah, thanks."

He smiled a third time, dazzling me. I shook myself out of it. I didn't know this guy. Even so… maybe I'd happen to bump into him again over the course of my stay.

Looking back up at him, I thought to myself that maybe I wouldn't mind that.

But for now, I had to get back before the boys worried. I took a reluctant step backwards. "Well, it was nice meeting you, Isaac."

His brow creased. "You're leaving? So soon?"

I shrugged, an _I know, right?_ expression crossing my face. "I have to get back before my family worries about me. But…" I hesitated, contemplating the wisdom of this next question I wanted to ask. I decided to go ahead and ask it. "Maybe I'll see you later?"

The corner of his mouth curled into a half-smile that was strangely alluring. He extinguished his cigarette on the bottom of his shoe and flicked it aside. "Maybe sooner than you think, Jennifer Anne."

I gave a nervous laugh. "Well," I said, for lack of anything else to say. I noticed I was twisting my hands together like mad. I gave him a half-wave, not knowing exactly how to end the conversation on a non-awkward note.

"Do you like photography?" he asked suddenly.

"Sorry?" I asked, confused. He smiled, somewhat bashfully.

"I mean, you have a Polaroid there, so I didn't know…"

I looked down at the camera, just now remembering it.

"Oh, yeah," I said, still mildly nonplussed. "It's my brother's."

I rarely had to refer to the boys without the other person knowing who they were, but I had decided a while ago to call them my brothers if ever I did. It was basically true, and it was easier to say than explaining the whole rigmarole. Besides, I got a sentimental sort of happiness from it.

Isaac held out his hand. "May I?"

I frowned, unsure what to say. Ringo had told me to be careful with it, but surely Isaac wouldn't hurt it. I pulled the strap over my neck.

"I'm into photography," he said, taking the camera from my hands. He held it carefully, and I relaxed.

"So's my brother," I said conversationally as Isaac studied the camera. I smiled to myself as I thought of Ringo's love of photography, which was rubbing off onto George in the form of filmography. Whereas Ringo liked stills, George had just recently bought a video recorder and was making good use of it.

"He takes pictures of all of us," I continued. Isaac looked up, his expression slightly concerned.

"Your family?" he asked. "How many siblings do you have?"

"Four brothers, all older," I said proudly. A shadow crossed over Isaac's face.

"Four big brothers, huh?" he said, almost to himself. He shook his head as if to clear it, looking back at me. "You must be well taken care of," he said, almost caustically.

I smiled somewhat reservedly. "I am, thank you."

We kept eye contact for a few seconds, at a loss of what to say, when he sighed in a frustrated tone.

"Oh, forget it," he spat. To my utter surprise and absolute horror, he threw Ringo's camera carelessly to the side where it busted against the rocks.

"Hey!" I shouted, indignation and anger running through me, as well as confusion. "You - !"

Before I could comprehend it, he shot out his hand and grabbed my wrist.

"What are you doing?" I asked, a tinny, hysterical tone to my voice as I pulled against his grip. He gave me a hooded, wild look.

"You'll see," he said in an undertone, tightening his grip. My fight-or-flight instinct kicked in, then. I struggled against the hold he had on me.

"Let me go," I said, angry and afraid. My brain was working a million miles an hour, trying to understand what was even going on, much less how to escape from this obviously crazy guy. He gave a dark laugh.

"I don't think so," he said, his voice sending chills through me. The next few seconds happened so fast. He pulled me towards him with a jerk, sending a flare of pain through my shoulder. With his other hand on my waist, he pressed me tight against him. I screamed as loud as I could, that bit of survival knowledge coming from the back of my mind, desperation clawing its way through me; he forced his mouth onto mine, kissing me with painful force and cutting off my voice.

Revulsion and terror poured though me. I fought and kicked, desperately trying to break his grip. His hands moved all over me, not sparing any inch. With one hand, he forced my mouth open and kissed me again.

Adrenaline rushing through me, I jerked my leg upwards and kneed him in the groin. He groaned, his grip slackening for a second, just enough to let me escape. He straightened with considerable effort, his hands reaching towards me. I cried out in fear, my blood pumping hard enough to hurt through my veins. I swung my arm back, prepared to do anything to keep him away from me.

Someone beat me to it.

My savior picked Isaac up by his shirt collar, eyes ablaze with fury, and laid him flat with a solid contact to his jaw. A sickening _crunch_ accompanied the blow.

I staggered away from them, my head spinning, my heart in my throat. The adrenaline in my blood was making me sick. As my rescuer took Isaac's collar in his fist once again, ready to deliver another blow, I recognized who it was.

"Oh, _John_."

Tears of relief poured down my face as John looked up at me, his expression full of emotional pain. In that moment, Isaac staggered up and swung back, aiming to hit John.

"John - !" I cried. John turned, ready to deal another blow, but was beaten to it by Ringo. I shied away in fear, backing into someone else. I swung around, ready to fight off anybody who dared threaten me again; it was only George. My face crumpled, the immediate security I felt as I saw him contrasting deeply with the fear pounding through me. He didn't say a word, only hugged me tight.

From the shelter of George's arms, I saw Ringo tackle Isaac with a roar, pinning him to the ground.

"Keep your bloody hands off my family!" he thundered, landing him two fierce blows. Isaac attempted to fight back, swinging his fists wildly, and caught Ringo on the chin. John started towards them, murderous intent in his expression; Paul caught hold of him and held him back, keeping a firm grip even as John struggled against him.

Ringo clocked Isaac square across the face, paying him back in full what he'd given. Isaac groaned, tears mixing with blood on his face. Ringo wound up for another swing, but was stopped by Paul.

"That's enough, Ringo," Paul said, his voice shaky with rage against Isaac. He let go of John, who, for Paul's sake, stayed where he was. "You'll kill him," Paul said, even though his tone clearly said he wouldn't mind if Ringo did. "Let him go."

After a moment, Ringo did as Paul said. He stood, his face showing utter disgust as he stepped over Isaac's inert body. Isaac was breathing shallowly, blood still streaking his face. His face was swollen and bruised.

We just stood there, tension rolling off of us in waves, none of us knowing what to do or say. I walked from George over to the rocks where Ringo's camera laid, its broken pieces scattered on the sand. I knelt down next to it and cradled the pieces in my hands.

Ringo knelt next to me, ducking his head and trying to see my face. "Are you ok, Jennifer?"

I knew what he wanted to know, but couldn't bring myself to say anything in response. Besides, I had gotten his camera broken, the one thing he actually cared about. It was my fault.

"I'm so sorry," I said, my voice barely above a whisper as I closed my hand around the jagged edges of the broken pieces. "You asked me to be careful, and I – " my voice broke, making it impossible to continue.

"It's just a camera, Jennifer," Ringo said softly, his voice heavy with sorrow. "It's just a thing. It can be replaced. It's _you_ I care about – ok, ok. That's alright, Jennifer."

I turned to him, collapsing in his arms as I sobbed: great, heaving sobs that shook my entire body. Fear and relief and horror crashed within me; I had to let them out or they would suffocate me. He held me as I cried, making no move to quiet me.

"I am so sorry," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "Oh, Jennifer. I'm sorry."


	8. Chapter 8

We didn't know how to deal with the situation.

We arrived back at the house, none of us speaking since we left. Filing into the living room, we all stood around, a storm cloud of anger and unease hanging low around us. Ringo and John nursed bruised knuckles; the spot where Isaac had hit Ringo was beginning to flush blue and purple. I wanted to cry; I wanted to scream; I wanted to sleep until I forgot what had happened.

George slammed a fist on the tabletop, making us all jump.

" _Damn_ it," he growled.

None of us said anything, but his frustration echoed our own. John ran a hand through his hair.

"Jennifer, can you – "

"What happened?" Paul cut in, his voice colored with barely restrained rage. His jaw worked as he watched me, waiting for an answer.

I tried to talk, desperate to answer the anger in his eyes, but I fumbled the words. "I didn't – I found the guy – I was going to – "

"Get on with it, then," Paul said, annoyed. "Spit it out. You were – what? Flirting with him? Trying to get a date? What?"

"No!" I said, feeling tears surface. How could he accusing me of starting this? "Do you think I _wanted_ him to molest me?"

He blustered, searching for words. "No – yes – I don't know!"

I gasped, totally incredulous. I looked at the others for support, but they seemed just as astounded as I was.

"I didn't ask for him to attack me!" I said.

"You could have bloody well fooled me!" he yelled, his expression stormy. "What were you thinking, talking to a random guy like that, just giving yourself out to any and every one you find in a foreign country? Why the hell not, right?"

"Hey, mate, that's – " John started indignantly, but Paul cut him off for the second time.

"Shut it, would you, Lennon?" he spat.

" _Paul_ ," I cried desperately, feeling like my word had completely shifted on its axis. First I was attacked, and now one of the only four people I thought I could trust completely was acting like someone totally different from himself. Tears streaked down my face, hot against my skin.

"If you had just come straight back, none of this would have happened," Paul said maliciously.

"Paul, that's _enough_!" Ringo said angrily.

"Why weren't you there to protect me?!" I yelled, pushing past the boys and facing Paul. Anger and hurt came over me, blinding me. "You claim it's all my fault, but where the hell were _you_?"

Paul looked a little shell-shocked, as did the other boys. But shock quickly changed to anger on Paul's face, and he took a step towards me.

"If you hadn't run off – "

"I guess I should have expected to be left to fend for myself, right?" I asked, surprising myself with the vehemence with which I said it. "Because I _always_ am! You never have time for me anymore, it's all parties and press and _Jane_ \- so why should I expect you to be there when I need you?!"

He balled his fists, knuckles white. "I would have been there if I could –"

"You're so _selfish_!" I screamed.

"– but you made that impossible by leaving _alone_!" he roared.

George crossed to me and put a hand on my shoulder, cutting off my view of Ringo and John as they converged on Paul, a heated argument already beginning between the three of them.

"Come on, Jennifer," George said, his voice hard. He wasn't showing any sympathy, angry at both me and Paul. "Let's get you out from here before we get World War III."

I did as he said, following his lead towards my bedroom. Three angry voices sounded behind me, their shouted words jumbled and indistinguishable in my head. My own words tasted bitter on my tongue, but I couldn't find it in me to feel sorry for what I'd said.

After George left me in my room, I snuck out and stayed just beyond the doorway to the living room, wanting to hear more clearly what they said.

"What the hell is _wrong_ with you, McCartney?" George asked as he broke into the already thunderous argument, his anger obvious. "I mean, _both_ of you – damn!"

"Oh, don't you start!" Paul said. "These two have already had my head for it!"

"As well you deserve!" Ringo exclaimed. "Sayin' things like that to a girl who's just been attacked. To Jennifer, your own – "

"What is she to me?" Paul asked, a note of hysteria in his voice.

"By God, man," John said, concern prevailing over anger in his voice. "What's gotten into you?"

A loud crash made me jump. I heard someone suck in a breath.

" _I could kill him_!" Paul yelled, his voice ragged. "I could _kill_ the bastard!"

No one said anything for a moment.

"Yeah, well, we all could," George said bitterly. "Don't feel special."

"That's not what's important now," Ringo maintained, still angry.

"How could you ever say something like that to her?" John asked, his tone a mixture of distaste and incredulity and sadness. "How, Paul?"

"She wasn't exactly sweet either," he said sulkily.

"I don't care if she said you were a bloody _scrubber_!" John said indignantly. "You still shouldn't have said what you did!"

"I didn't mean it," Paul said sincerely. "I really didn't."

"You sure as hell sounded like you meant it," Ringo growled.

"I…" Paul started, at a loss of what to say. "I was angry, I was furious, and I took it out on her."

Someone started to say something, but Paul cut them off.

"Don't ask me why," he said miserably. "You can't be more disgusted with me than I am."

"God, Paul," John said after a minute of silence. He sounded tired. "You've made this into a real ruddy mess, you know."

"I know," Paul said dejectedly. "I know it. I just hope she'll forgive me." He hesitated.

"I'm sorry, mates," he said. "For acting that way. I just… I feel responsible for it, like there was something I should have done to prevent it but didn't."

There was a collective sigh.

"It wasn't your fault, Macca," John said. The use of Paul's nickname signaled a shift from anger towards eventual forgiveness, one that we all knew.

"It wasn't any of our faults," Ringo added. "Even though we probably all feel like it was."

No one said anything, showing with certainty that what Ringo said was true.

"We can't waste our time feeling sorry for ourselves," George said. "We've got to stick together. Otherwise, we won't be of any help to Jennifer."

It was then that I went back to my room, feeling a strange numbness come over me as I did.


	9. Chapter 9

"She's bloody knackered, Ringo. She hasn't slept a wink since it happened."

I heard Ringo sigh in response to George's worries. "I know it, mate," he said.

"Should we talk to her, do you think?" George asked.

"I dunno," Ringo said. "She's never been through anything like this. I don't know how she handles this sort of thing. Maybe she needs to be left alone."

"Paul's taking it pretty hard," George added after a moment. "He hasn't gotten over how he exploded at her like that."

"He blames himself," Ringo said. I could picture him rubbing the back of his neck, a motion that accompanied the tired tone present in his voice. "He was angry at himself, and he took it out on her." After a moment, he added, "But I blame myself, too. I'm the one who let her go back, for God's sake. I think we're all pretty out of sorts about the whole thing."

"She'd come to us if she needed us, right?" George asked.

"To tell you the truth, mate," Ringo said, "I really don't know."

I went back to my room, closing the door behind me as quietly as possible. I'd overheard the boys talking to each other since the argument yesterday, their voices low and laced with concern. I hadn't talked to them about it; I hadn't even really been around them since it happened. I certainly didn't want to be near Paul. It wasn't just what he'd said to me, as horrible as it was. Some part of me knew that what he'd said was merely him searching for any explanation other than the horrific truth, that he didn't really believe it was my fault. Even still, I couldn't bring myself to forgive him.

No, part of it was what I'd said to him. I didn't know I was carrying that resentment and hurt, but now that I'd said it, I couldn't take it back. I knew that I had been unfair. Paul wanted to be there for me every time I needed him, but he couldn't. And that wasn't his fault, it's just the hand we were dealt. But all the blame-shifting in the world couldn't hide the fact that he had let me down when I needed him most. I didn't know what to do. I loved Paul, I hated him, I felt sorry for him. Most of all, I missed him.

So I stayed in my room, conflicted. Even Ringo's famous Liverpool Tart, my favorite dessert and one he made especially for me, couldn't lure me out. I stayed in my room, mostly, sitting on my bed and staring at the wall. It was during those times that I relived horrible flashes of my assault. My lips were bruised, as was my wrist. My skin tingled sickeningly where Isaac had touched me.

I didn't know why I couldn't bring myself to be around them. I knew there was an underlying sense that told me to avoid them, but I didn't understand it. Part of me wanted to be held and to be coddled and to be loved until the pain went away. But the other part of me forced me towards seclusion and isolation, made me relive the attack until I grew numb.

* * *

At some point, John let himself into my room. He closed the door behind him and stood facing me, his hands by his side, his demeanor calm and collected even though I sensed an underlying anxiety in him. He absently rubbed his knuckles.

"You're hurt," I said, my voice cracking from underuse. It was the first thing I'd said in a while.

He started a little, glancing down at his hands like he'd forgotten the bruises on them. "Oh," he said. "It's nothing, really. Ringo's are worse."

"Ringo's hands are hurt too?" I asked, the emotion in my voice underwhelming. I did care, I just couldn't remember how to say it like I did.

John looked up at me. "Yeah," he said. "But that kid had it worse than any of us."

Isaac's bloodied face flashed through my memory, bringing with it a stab of emotion. Brief waves of fear and disgust made my stomach roll.

John watched me carefully, his hazel eyes focused on mine. "You've got to pull yourself out of this, Jennifer," he said, his voice serious and sad. "It'll kill you if you don't."

A spark of anger went off in my chest, igniting a slowly growing flame that had died out these past two days. "Excuse me?"

"You heard what I said," he maintained. "And you know I'm right. I know you, Jennifer."

I got out of the bed. "You know me?" I said. "And how's that, I might ask?"

"I know that you'll never get over this until you've gotten it off your chest and out of your head," he said. "You're like me when it comes to that. If I'm left to brood too long, it gets really bad really fast."

I scoffed. "How do you know what I'm like when it comes to that?" I asked, my voice full of disdain. "You don't know anything about how I am. You don't know anything about taking care of me like this, do you?"

"No," he said, heartrendingly honest. "I don't. And neither do the lads. But we love you, Jennifer, and we want to help."

As he spoke, an irresistible urge to cry overwhelmed me. "You can't help me!" I cried. "You can't. You know you can't."

"Why not?" he asked.

"Because you don't know what it's like!" I burst out. Tears came now, flooding my eyes and spilling down onto my cheeks. "You don't know how terrible it is to feel dirty and ashamed, like you're nothing! You don't know what it was like to feel his hands all over you, taking a part of you."

John's face blanched. "That's how you feel?"

Anger poured through me, but it wasn't directed at John. "Why was it me?" I asked him. "Why in the hell was it me who had to go through that? I just – I just – and Paul, he – why – ?"

I stopped in sobs - breathless, angry sobs that turned into broken screams of frustration. I was so _angry_ at what had happened. I was angry that Isaac had made me feel afraid and unclean. I was angry with the betrayal I felt from Paul. The hard, cold despair that I had welled up in my chest melted in fiery rage and debilitating sorrow.

The next thing I felt was John's arms around me, pulling me close to his chest, where I simply gave up and cried and cried. He rubbed my back soothingly, his own face wet with tears.

"That's it, love," he said. "Let it out."

"I – I – I can't," I said, my breath hitching. It would swallow me whole if I let it.

"Yes you can," he assured me. "I know you can. And you don't have to do it alone, either. You've got four lads who love you more than themselves, and we're not gonna let it have you."

"Do you promise?" I asked, surprising myself.

He sighed in relief. "Yes, Jennifer," he said, hugging me tight. "I promise."


	10. Chapter 10

**AN: I changed a little bit in chapters 8 and 9, giving Jennifer some things to say in response to what Paul said. The next chapters will make sense if you don't want to go back and read the new tidbits in 8 and 9, but they'll make more sense if you do! Love and hugs xo**

* * *

"I don't know, John, maybe I should – "

John gave me a push towards the door. "You should talk to him, Jen. Go on."

I still hesitated. George, Ringo, and John all stood behind me, waiting for me to go out onto the porch. It was here and now that this tension between me and Paul would be resolved, for better or for worse. But I was overcome with nervousness about it.

After talking with them for a long time, George, Ringo, and John had convinced me that Paul really hadn't meant what he'd said. And I knew that, but after talking to them I knew we couldn't continue in this painful game of stepping around each other, waiting for a reaction. I had things to apologize for as well. It wasn't just Paul and I who were hurting from this, but the other boys as well. Someone had to fix it.

I reached a hand towards the doorknob, biting my lip, and went in. I shut the door behind me, even though it was unnecessary – the screen door provided ample viewing and listening opportunity for the boys just on the other side of it.

Paul stood by the door out to the pool, pulling a cigarette from the carton in his pocket. He stuck it in his mouth, heaving a shaky breath, and flipped open a lighter.

"Paul?" I asked.

He fumbled the lighter, barely managing to catch it before it fell. He looked over at me, nervousness showing in his brown eyes.

"Jennifer," he said, trying unsuccessfully several times to flick the lighter on, and finally lighting his cigarette. He took a drag from his ciggie, his gaze flickering nervously from me to the boys to the beach outside.

"Jennifer, I – "

"I'm so sorry for what I said," I blurted. I exhaled deeply, feeling much better now that I'd said it. "I was a real git, and I wasn't being fair when I said what I did. Can you forgive me?"

He sort of coughed, like trying to cover up crying. He didn't look at me, but his eyes were wet.

"Can I forgive you?" he said, his voice rough. He gave me a sideways glance. "God, what a question to ask, Jen. Of course I forgive you. There's nothing to forgive."

"Thank you," I breathed, realizing just how much I'd wanted to hear him say that.

"No, the real question is whether or not you can forgive me," he said, almost to himself.

I acted totally on instinct then, doing the first thing I knew – I went straight to him and hugged his neck. He hesitated a second, as if not knowing what he should do, but quickly hugged me to him.

After a second, he drew in a ragged breath, and I knew he was crying. I held him tighter, guilt and love washing through me.

"I'm sorry," he sobbed against my shoulder.

"Oh, Paul," I said quietly. "I know."

And I did. His actions said more to me than any words could have. He had been hurting this whole time, drowning in guilt.

"How can you ever forgive me?" he asked brokenly.

I smiled to myself, love for this boy overwhelming. "I already have." I said, knowing it to be true. I'd forgiven him the minute he'd forgiven me. "I love you too much not to."

* * *

None of us were completely free from the effects of my attack, even after Paul and I made peace, but we were on the road to recovery. We knew from experience that we'd only hurt more if we alienated each other, and that the best way to get over what had happened was to stick together. I followed my instincts and stayed close with the boys in the following days, getting back to normal in the safety and love of our little family.


	11. Chapter 11

"You know, lads, you'd better call your women."

We all looked over at George, somewhat lazily. We were lounging on the porch, trying to escape the heat of the day. Ringo and John were working on a crossword puzzle together, and Paul and I were reading books that we'd brought. George flipped a page in his newspaper, apparently saying all he had intended.

"What'd you mean?" Paul asked, dog-earing the page he was on.

"I mean you'd better call them," George said again, not looking up from his paper. "You know how women get. They like to be called."

"Oh, what do you know about women?" Ringo teased.

George stuck his tongue out at Ringo, making Ringo laugh.

"I grew up with an older sister, didn't I?" George said. "Louise would practically faint if her boyfriend called her. She used to sit by the phone and wait for his call." He shook his head and smiled, obviously affectionate towards the memory.

"He's right, you know," I said. "You should call them. Tell them I said hello."

I knew Cynthia, Maureen, and Jane would like nothing better than to be called by their boys. I was very close to Cyn and Mo. Lovely, dark-haired Maureen and I were instant friends from the moment we met at the Cavern - she asked me to help her get backstage to get a kiss from "Ritchie", as she called Ringo. Together, we bucked up the courage to try and be friends with Cynthia – she was kind of intimidating, being six years older than our then 15, Bridgette-Bardot gorgeous, and knowing the boys since John's art school days. But now, two years later, we three were always going shopping or just hanging out and having girl time. Despite how much we loved them, we did have to get away from the boys from time to time. I stayed with either of them when the boys were away for extended periods of time, and through being "Beatle-girls", as the press called us, they were like my sisters.

I wasn't as close with Jane, as she was always away on tour with her theatre troupe, but we were still friends. I liked her well enough, and Paul certainly liked her. That was enough for me, despite not knowing her as intimately as I did Mo and Cyn.

However, neither Paul, Ringo, nor John moved to go to the phone. George gave a short laugh.

"Go on, then," he said. "D'you want us to tell them that you didn't want to call?"

John scoffed, standing. "Just you wait until you've got one," he said sagely. "You won't be running to talk about Mrs. Caffey's new husband or the baby's newest Sunday outfit." He left for the living room, where the phone was.

"Women don't just talk about that sort of thing," I said indignantly.

The boys laughed.

"Oh yes they do," Paul said. "Maybe you don't now, but you will when you've got a man's ear to talk off."

"What about you, George?" Ringo asked. "How goes your quest for a regular-call lady?"

George flipped down his newspaper. "Well, if you must know, I'm seeing Pattie Boyd."

"You're seeing Pattie Boyd?" Paul asked incredulously, leaning forward in his seat. "The model? Since when?"

"Since _A Hard Day's Night_ ," George said.

There had been a few scenes in the beginning of the movie that required a group of girls for the boys to talk to, and much to my indignation, the director hired models instead of normal girls from acting classes. However, Mo, Cyn, and I became fast friends with beautiful, blonde Pattie through the filming of _A Hard Day's Night_. I knew she fancied George, but I had no idea they were seeing each other.

Ringo gave George a sly smile. "Leave it to George to date a model."

"She said I was the most handsome man she'd ever seen," George said smugly.

"Life must be hard for her, the poor blind thing," Paul teased, making Ringo laugh outright. "Bet she wasn't blind enough to miss her way home, though, was she?"

"How was it?" Ringo asked secretively. I chucked my book at him.

"Ow," he laughed, rubbing his shoulder where the book hit.

"Do you have to be so… uncouth?" I asked, half-amused and half-mortified. I knew that all the boys slept with their women regularly, but they never talked about it in front of me.

They all laughed. "Don't be a prude, Jennifer," Paul said. "You'll have a man someday, probably sooner rather than later, and you'll be talking about the same stuff."

I smiled. "I've got you four," I said. "Why should I need another man?"

Ringo grinned knowingly. "Oh, you'll find someone. And you'll be singing a different tune when you do. Having brothers is nice and all, but you'll be over the moon for your boyfriend. You won't even have time for us anymore."

I scoffed. "Like that'll happen. And you'll probably interrogate and threaten the poor kid until he doesn't want to be with me anymore."

"Well, what did you expect?" George joked. "It was part of the deal, living with us four."

I smiled, knowing what he said to be true. They wouldn't let me date a guy they didn't find completely perfect, something I was secretly grateful for.

John came back from the living room, a certain spring to his step. "Alright Macca," he said, with a clap of finality. "Into the lion's mouth."

Paul set down his book and stood. "Don't do anything interesting while I'm gone."

As Paul left, John sat in the vacated spot. Despite what he'd said earlier, I knew John was happy to have called his wife.

"How's Cyn?" Ringo asked.

"She's great," he said. "She says hi, and extra love to Jen. Told me all about Mrs. Henderson's petunias. Said we should have some too, so I said I'd do them when we got back."

"Will you really?" George asked, still reading the newspaper.

John shrugged, laughing. "Maybe. If she really wants them, I will."

I smiled. "And how's my favorite nephew?" I asked.

John beamed. "Julian's doing just fine," he said proudly. "He's starting to talk really well, now. He can say 'ball' and 'mum'. Cyn said he's a healthy, handsome boy who takes after his papa."

"Really amazing," Ringo said, not looking up from his crossword puzzle, "considering his dad's such a right ugly git."

Several shocked laughs and playful 'oooh's issued from us, George biting his lip behind his newspaper to keep from laughing outright.

"That's the pot calling the kettle black on that one, mate," John joked, getting Ringo right back. They bantered back and forth until Paul came back.

"How's Jane?" John asked.

"Oh, fine, fine," Paul said shortly. "She's on a tour in Bristol, actually. Her mum had to give me the number to her hotel."

"What play's she doing?" I asked.

Paul frowned, leaning back on the settee. "Some Shakespeare or other, I think. I didn't really catch it. She wanted to talk about her coworkers."

"Bet that was loads of fun," John said amusedly. Paul gave him a brief, sulky look.

"Yeah, and I'll bet Cyn just talked dirty to you, didn't she?"

John leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. "No, she talked about flowers. It's alright, though. I _like_ my woman."

"Well, so do I," Paul maintained. "Most of the time."

"Why not all the time?" George asked.

"Once you've got a girl, you'll –" John started.

"No, George's got a girl!" Ringo broke in excitedly. "He's seeing Pattie Boyd!"

John sat up straighter. "Are you really?"

"Yes," George said again, unfailingly patient.

John relaxed again. "Well, good for you. Pat's a nice girl."

"I'll bet she was real nice to George, eh John?" Paul joked.

"Come off it," George laughed, unperturbed by jokes at his expense. "She's a nice girl, and I like her, so I'm seeing her. No harm in that. I don't know if it's going to be serious or not."

"Wait a while before it gets serious, mate," John advised. "You can never go back from being serious about a woman."

"Well, you can," Paul corrected. "It's just bloody hard. May as well skip that pain if you can."

"But you should call her," I reminded him.

"God," George laughed. "It sounds like misery, having a real girlfriend."

" _These chains of love got a hold on me_!" Paul sang, making us all laugh.

"Just you wait," Ringo told George, standing to take his turn at the phone. "You'll start telling Pattie you love her, and then you won't laugh. You'll be crying right along with us."

"You will if you've got Ringo's girl," Paul joked. "She's a pistol."

Ringo grinned. "Ain't she, though?" he said happily, going to call his Mo. "She's bloody brilliant."

"He's got it bad, hasn't he?" George asked when Ringo went inside.

"Don't call it so fast," John said. "You'll be talking about Pattie like that soon enough."

"Don't hold your breath," George said, amused. "We've just been talking."

"Yeah, and sleeping," Paul added in a mock-aside.

George smirked. "Maybe we have," he said.

"There's no maybe about it, son," John assured him. Then, in the wise tone of an older brother, "It's all downhill from there, you know."

George laughed incredulously. "I can't decide whether you'd advise me to get a girl or not," he said. "One second you love them to bits and can't wait to get home to them, and the next you can't shut your gobs from complaining."

Paul and John laughed.

"It's good," John said. "Having a woman to come home to is certainly better than not having one. But it's not easy. Don't fool yourself into thinking it is."

"If you like Pattie, you should get on with her," Paul advised. "It's not all daises and buttercups, but it's good in the long run."

John glanced over at me. "You hearing all this, Jen?" he asked. I nodded, smiling.

"Sure am," I said. "But I reckon you'll all lecture me again when I find a beau."

"Clever girl," Paul said. "You reckon right."

Ringo came out then, sitting back in his seat.

"That was fast," George commented.

Ringo shrugged. "She's working, so she couldn't talk long. She says hi to you lads and says she misses you, Jen." He looked over at George. "So, Georgie... you're the one who said women like to be called. Maybe you should call yours."

George set down his newspaper. "We're not serious, though," he reminded us.

All the boys _pshaw_ ed.

"It doesn't matter if you're serious or not," John said. "She'll still expect it."

George groaned, standing. "This is ridiculous. What should I say?"

"That's your problem," Ringo said with a laugh.

"Tell her you miss her," Paul said.

"You can't wait till you get back to see her," John added.

George huffed. "Fine."

He went in to the living room to call Pattie, and we turned towards each other.

"I'd like to see what he says," Paul said. "Could be entertaining."

As if under some silent agreement, stifling our laughter, we all got up and filed through the door and into the living room. We hung back but were within easy hearing distance of George at the telephone at the side table.

"Oh, uh, hi, Pattie," he said nervously. "It's George."

A girl's muffled voice came through the receiver. George smiled.

"Yeah, we're just on vacation and I thought I'd give you a ring. Mmhm. No, she's here with us. I will. Say, Pattie... when I get back, do you think I could, um, take you out?"

John, Paul, Ringo, and I all looked at each other.

"Guess George does want to get serious," Paul whispered.

"Yeah," Ringo and I whispered. John shushed us, nodding to George.

"Well, I'd really like that," George was saying, rubbing the back of his neck. "That'd be nice." He started to say something, hesitated, and then rushed out, "I can't wait till I get back to see me - er, that is, I mean, you. I can't wait till I get back to see you."

We covered our mouths and bit our lips to keep from laughing. George's face was beet red as he said a hurried goodbye and hung up the receiver.

"Bloody hell," John said breathlessly as the rest of us were doubled over in laughter. "You botched that one, son."

George whirled around to face us, his expression mortified. "You were listening?"

"Yeah, we were listening," Paul laughed. "It was great."

"I'm such a dunce," George said. He shook his head and laughed at himself, his face still red, walking over to where we stood. John, Paul, and Ringo clapped him on the back, showing their support for their youngest brother in his hour of embarrassment.

"Ah, we've all done it," Ringo told him as we walked back out to the porch. "It happens to the best of us."

"She must think I'm a knacker," George said ruefully.

"Nah, she doesn't," Paul assured him.

"She probably thinks you're cute," I added.

George didn't look convinced. "Really?"

I shrugged, smiling. "Sure. Girls think it's cute when a guy gets nervous."

He sighed, relief evident in his expression. "Well, hopefully that's what she thinks."

John ruffled George's mop of jet black hair. "Even if she doesn't, she's still going with you. That's something."

George shrugged. "She invited me to an art show that her friend's hosting."

"But she's the real work of art you'll be seeing," Ringo said in the voice of a doe-eyed schoolgirl. George pushed him playfully, laughing.

"You're not mad at us, right?" I asked.

George glanced over at me. "What, for listening?"

I nodded. He grinned, vampire teeth showing.

"No, I'm not," he said. "You've seen me do stuff more stupid that that, and I've seen you guys do some idiotic stuff too."

"And you love us still," Ringo said cheekily.

"Didn't say that," George laughed, chucking a throw pillow at him.

We continued to laze around, chatting about girls and embarrassing moments, cracking jokes and generally having a nice time. Laying on the couch, my head in John's lap and my feet on George's knees, Paul and Ringo sitting in armchairs across from us, I found myself wishing it could be like this all the time. It couldn't be, I knew. I was a Beatle-girl, after all. But I wouldn't give it up for the whole world.


	12. Chapter 12

I absently fanned my book in front of my face, hot to the point of sluggishness. The weather so far had been pleasant – besides raining the other day, on the whole our vacation had been sunny and breezy. But for some reason, today was scorching.

Paul and George were lying around in the living room with me, sprawled out in armchairs as they tried to beat the heat; Paul was sleeping. I was lying on the couch and moving as little as possible to maintain my precarious bearable temperature. John was outside having a smoke.

Ringo came in to the living room rom the hallway, surveying us.

"Air conditioner's broken," he said casually.

"How do you know?" I asked.

"Besides the fact that we're burning up?" George asked.

Ringo chuckled. "The thermostat says it something like 50 degrees in here," he said, met by cries of confusion and frustration from me and George.

"There's no way it's 50 something," George complained.

"Obviously," Ringo placated. "So the bloody thing's broken."

John came in from the porch then. His face scrunched up as he walked in.

"Bleedin' hell," he said. "It's hotter in here than out there."

"It's me," Ringo joked. John snorted.

"What'd you boneheads do to the thermostat?" he asked.

"Ringo said it's broken," I said.

"I'll call Mal," George volunteered. "He can find us someone to fix it."

As George got up to call Mal Evans, our roadie who had come with us as part of our entourage, John turned to the sleeping Paul.

"I feel as though opportunity knocks for us, friends," he said cryptically.

Ringo looked over at John. "What d'you mean?"

John nodded towards Paul. "I think Paul would like to go for a swim, don't you?"

Confusion and then mischief crossed Ringo's face. "I think you're right, Johnny." Ringo turned to George, who was hanging up with Mal. "What say you, George?"

"What's that?" George asked, his brows going up.

Ringo nodded towards Paul. "John says Paul might like to go for a swim."

"You mean chuck him in?" George asked plainly, amused. "Yeah, I'll do it."

They all three advanced quietly on Paul in his armchair. I sat up straighter, apprehensive.

"Wait, you're really doing it?" I asked.

Ringo chuckled at my disbelief. "Yeah, Jenny. Come on."

I got up from the couch then. "He'll be so mad!"

"He'll be fine," John assured me in a whisper, skirting around to the front side of the couch. "Go and open the porch door, Jenny."

I frowned, not particularly condoning this prank, but opening the door just the same. But as I watched the boys prepare to hoist Paul from the chair and carry him to the pool, a smile crossed my face. Living with four boys certainly kept you on your toes.

"On three," John said quietly. "One, two, three!"

The three of them lifted him, George taking hold of his arms and Ringo and Paul taking his legs. Amazingly, Paul didn't wake fully until they had carried him out to the side of the pool.

"What's all this…?" he asked dazedly. "What the – "

"Rise and shine, Macca!" George said as the others laughed.

On John's count, they swung him towards the pool, sending him hollering into the water with a huge splash. He surfaced to peals of laughter, spluttering and flipping his hair out of his eyes, giving us a falsely murderous expression.

"I'll get you bastards for that!" he laughed, swimming towards the side of the pool. He grabbed a hold of Ringo's legs.

"Oh no you don't – " Ringo started, still laughing. He attempted to step back from the water, but John and George pushed him in from behind.

John, George, and I all jumped in then, not caring that none of us were in our bathing suits. The boys' spirit of mischief was catching and the water was nice and cool. We swam and played until the mechanic came and fixed our air conditioning.


	13. Chapter 13

"Telephone for you, Jenny!"

I grumblingly got up from my chair where I had been sunbathing, just at the water so the waves would lap up on my feet. Ringo was at the door, waving at me to come in.

"Who is it?" I asked as I came inside.

"It's Brian," he told me. "The receiver's laying on the table for you."

I thanked him as he turned down the hallway and picked up the receiver. "Eppy?"

"Hello, Miss Jennifer," Brian said, his lisping Teddy-boy accent unmistakable. "You're doing well with the boys, I trust?"

"Very well, thanks," I said. Brian always made sure to put his best foot forward when starting a conversation, whether business or personal.

"And it's everything you wanted, I hope?" he asked.

"Absolutely," I assured him. "Thank you for making it happen. You're the best, Eppy, you really are."

He chuckled. "So they say. Well, I'm certainly glad you're having a good time. But really I'm calling on a business matter. Two, actually. Do you have a moment?"

I shifted my weight from one leg to the other. "Sure. What's up?"

"This first one's quite a bit less formal than the other," he said. "So firstly, I have here a pile of fan mail that was delivered – would you like that to be sent over, or should it wait until you're back in London?"

Usually, I was the one who handled most of the fan mail that got sent in. It would be delivered to all sorts of places: EMI, the boys' parents' houses, our house, or the office of our Press Officer Derek Taylor. One of Eppy's delegates would bundle it up and send it to my flat so that I could sort through it and answer some as I could or give it to the boys to read and sign. I made it my goal that every one of them be answered, because I knew what it was like to be a fan and want to know the boys personally. Most of the girls liked me and were happy for me, in the dream position that I was in, and only occasionally did I get nasty letters about how I had cheated my way to where I was.

However, there was just so _much_. I couldn't realistically do all the answering, what with school and other things that I did: I was working two days a week doing odd jobs at EMI, giving me something to do while the boys were in the studio. So because I needed help with the letters, some were sent to Freda Kelly, officially The Beatles' secretary. She had been a Cavern regular, and Brian had been so impressed with her organizational skills that he made her the secretary. Now she did official work for Brian and ran the Beatles Fan Club, something she'd started during her days at the Cavern. She was around my age and was a good friend of mine.

I bit my lip. "Could it wait until we got back?" I asked. Even though I wasn't officially employed by EMI, I didn't often bow out of work. "I'm sorry, I just – "

"No, no need to be sorry at all," he assured me. "It's perfectly fine; you're on vacation."

"If it needs to be answered now, I can call Freda and see if she'll do it," I said, still mildly guilty.

"If you want her to do it I can tell her so," he said. "Or it can wait until you get back."

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"Positive," he said. "It'll be at the office for you when – oh, hold on – "

Someone said something on the other end of the line, their words indistinguishable.

"I'll tell her," came Eppy's voice, sounding distant. "Thank you, my dear."

Eppy's voice came in clearly now, directed to me. "Freda's just here and says she can work on some of it if you'd like."

"Wait, you're at your office?" I asked, confused. "In England? When did you go back?"

"There were a few things I had to take care of," he said dismissively, "so I had to catch a plane back yesterday. Mal and the others are still there, though."

"Oh," I said. "Ok. Would you tell Freda that it would be lovely if she could work on the letters? And that I said thank you?"

"I will," he said. "Now… there's a second matter I would like to discuss with you."

"Ok," I said warily, noting his tone. "Shoot."

He cleared his throat politely, and in my mind's eye I could see him straightening his silk tie, something he did when a delicate situation arose. "I've had a call from someone about you, Miss Jennifer."

I frowned. "About me? Who was it? A fan?"

"Ah, no…" He hesitated. "It was your mother that called."

I felt my legs go weak and sat down heavily on the couch behind me, mind reeling. I took a deep breath. "My… my mother?" I asked disbelievingly. "I… how?"

Eppy sighed. "She called to see how you – "

"How does she even know about me?" I asked, my voice strained with a mix of anger and fear. "How did she find out?"

"Alright, Miss Jennifer," Eppy said, firm and understanding at the same time. "No need to get upset with me. Let me explain."

I nodded, reminding myself to breathe normally. "Ok. Sorry."

"There now," he said. "She called yesterday evening. She said that she read your name in the Beatles Fan Club magazine."

"The boys asked them not to print my full name!" I said, aghast. "For this very reason, they asked them not to print it!"

It was true – as soon as I had come into the picture as a major part of the boys' lives two or so years ago, their first act was to make sure that my birth family wouldn't be able to find me without some digging: they did this by requesting that my last name and picture never be printed.

"Why did they?" I asked angrily. "To make money off of me? To spread lies? What?"

"I don't know why they did it," Brian said, trying to pacify me. "I'm having people look into it right now. But what's important now is that you know what's going on."

"What's going on?" I asked, impatient and wary at the same time. In my peripheral I noticed John walk in from the porch, but my attention was concentrated on what Eppy was saying.

"Your family has called in a police check," he said, in a tone that suggested he regretted having to say it. "London police have warrants to check your living situation, your personal contacts, everything. It's supposed to be so that your family can make sure you're being treated well."

"That's bullshit!" I snarled, on my feet. "You know I'm perfectly fine without them. You tell them that they can take that police warrant and – hey!"

John snatched the phone from me, frowning at me. "Ay, watch your tongue, little girl," he scolded. "Who're you talking to like that?"

I opened my mouth to tell him to give it back, but Brian interrupted.

"John, is that you?" came Brian's voice from the receiver. "Listen here for a minute, would you?"

John gave me a look, putting the receiver to his ear. "Hey, Eppy. What'd you say that's got Jennifer so riled she has to curse at you? I can't imagine I'd keep at it if I were you."

I looked up at John, holding on to the small comfort that his words brought amid my current whirlwind emotions. He winked at me, my foul language forgiven – John was always on my side, no matter what.

Brian's voice was muffled, but I knew he was telling John about my birth family and the warrant. John's face paled and then flushed red in anger.

"That's a bloody crock!" John said heatedly. "On whose authority can they just come into Jenny's life after years of completely abandoning her?"

George came in from the hallway as Brian answered John, running a hand over his face. "Can't sleep with all your ruddy shouting," he mumbled. "What's the matter, anyway?"

John scoffed in disgust. "'For the good of the subject' my arse. You tell those bastards at the London police department that they'll have a fight coming if they want to 'check in' on Jennifer while we're around."

George's brow knit and he walked over to us. "What's he talking about, Jenny?" he asked me. "Who's checking in on you?"

"London police," I said, my voice thick. "My family read my name in the Fan Club magazine and they're sending the police to investigate."

"Your family?" George asked, more confused than upset. His eyes widened. "Wait – your real family?"

Before I had a chance to answer, John hung up with Eppy and turned to us.

"We have to go," he said.

"Go?" I asked. "Where? Back home?"

John nodded, his expression grim. "Eppy said they'll be coming in any day. It won't be good if they arrive and we're not there."

George frowned. "But – "

"But we just got here," I cut across him, anger at my "real" family rising by the second. Who did they think they were, abandoning me for years and then showing up out of the clear blue sky to ruin my life? "I'm not going back."

"We've got to, love," John said sadly. "If we're not there and they find even the littlest thing that they don't like, they could take you from us."

"Take me from you?" I said, alarmed. I knew that it was possible, because technically my birth parents were still my legal guardians until June 22, when I would turn 18. And even though I shared a flat with Maureen, the boys would be the ones held responsible for anything the police didn't like. "They can't – "

"We're not going to let that happen," George said firmly. "I can promise you that."

We called a family meeting, all sitting in a sort of circle in the living room. John explained to Ringo and Paul what was going on; both stood up and had several choice words against the situation and my birth family.

"Screw the bleedin' police," Paul said passionately. "We've been doing a bloody fine job of taking care of you without the help of the damn police."

"A much better job than _they_ have, you know," Ringo added, special hatred in his voice as he referred to my parents. "They've got no right to barge in and take over your care. None at all."

"Besides," Paul said. "It's common knowledge that you're happy with us."

I felt all of their gazes turn to me then, watching me with concern and love and expectancy. I didn't understand what they wanted me to say.

"You… you are happy with us, aren't you?" George asked hesitantly.

A sort of guilt washed through me. "Oh, yes," I said sincerely, looking at each of them in turn, wanting to reassure these boys that loved me so. "I'm happier with you four than I've ever been in my entire life. _You_ are my real family. Don't ever doubt it. I love each of you so much."

They each looked relieved, their faces softening.

"We love you too," John said gently. "And we want the very best for you. So if that means we have to go home…"

"But we just got here," I said again, this time with more pleading than anger, feeling my eyes well with tears. I knew I was being childish, but we had waited so patiently for our vacation and now it was being taken from us by the stupidest, most asinine thing I'd ever heard of. My parents had sworn me off years ago and they were still ruining my life.

"I know you don't want to leave, love, and we're all sorry," Ringo said. "But we have to be in London to straighten it out. I promise, as soon as it's all taken care of, we'll go wherever you want to for as long as you wish."

I gave him a wobbly smile, thankful for his promise but knowing it was not in his power to deliver. They had tours and concerts scheduled months in advance, and we couldn't just cut into the schedule.

"So will you come home, honey?" Paul said. "We just want what's best for you."

I took a deep breath and nodded, knowing that the only way this could be sorted was to do as they said. "Yes," I said. "Let's go home."


	14. Chapter 14

When we arrived in London the next day, we were assaulted by press like I had never experienced. Somehow it had gotten out that the girl the Beatles kept under wraps was now being exposed, and the police were involved, which meant a juicy story for any reporter with poor tact and no morals. I couldn't leave the flat at all, or else risk being stampeded by photographers and reporters looking for answers where I had none.

The police wouldn't tell us when they would come and investigate the flat, no matter how many times we telephoned; they had the element of surprise on their side, and I suppose they weren't willing to give it up for our convenience. This was a matter of some stress to the boys: they left for their tour in just four days, and though they would rather be in London when the investigation happened, they couldn't cancel or even delay the tour. On top of it all, Ringo was under the weather and largely out of commission. I myself was ill with worry and tension; I couldn't sleep, my overactive brain coming up with the worst possible scenarios. I wouldn't – couldn't – go back to my parents.

My estrangement from my parents dates back to 1953, when I was still just a girl. I was the second of two children, both girls, born to Harold and Anne Dawson of Richmond, Virginia. My sister Barbara was two years older than me, and she was our parent's pride and joy. As a result of having spent the last ten years of my life trying to block out memories of my childhood, I don't remember very much about my sister. I'm sure I loved her, but I don't really remember.

However, one memory of my sister is still vivid in my mind. I can still smell the freshly cut grass and see the sun high in the sky. It was June of 1953, two months after my seventh birthday. Our nanny had taken me and Barbra to play in the park near our upper middle-class neighborhood. We were happily playing, me on the swing set and her sitting daintily at the kid-sized picnic table under the playground, playing with her dolly.

A second later, the playground collapsed in a freak accident. I emerged from the rubble amid hysterical screaming and police sirens, my leg broken and my mind reeling. Barbara had been killed by the collapsing set.

My parents blamed me for Barbara's death. It was so irrational of them but in their grief, they saw me as the culprit, somehow. Barbara had always been their favorite anyway, so it was almost natural to abandon me in the wake of the tragedy. Their attitude towards me led me to believe that I _was_ somehow responsible for Barbara, something I didn't get over until years later. But I tried my best, naïve and trusting child that I was, to please them and to make them love me.

My efforts were to no avail. They signed off legal guardianship of me and sent me to live with my great aunt Rosa in London, unwilling to have the complete abandonment of a child on their conscience but hating even the sight of me. Rosa Partridge was a sweet old lady who was very well-to-do, living in the big mansion that she and her husband had bought back in 1904. After my great uncle Benjamin died, she lived alone; so despite the horrible circumstances that brought me to her, she was delighted to have a child to care for. She truly loved me, and it is that time of my life that I look back on with extreme fondness.

After Rosa died in late November of 1962, my parents were contacted to help sort out the distribution of her will and were made to take legal responsibility for me; because I was only 16, my guardianship defected back to my parents after Rosa's death. I, of course, wanted nothing to do with them and planned to be gone before they set foot on English soil. However, Rosa must have known that I would have the opportunity to meet with my parents, and she wrote in a letter I was given after her death that I should try to reunite myself with them.

So out of love for Rosa, I tried to meet with my mother and father when they came. They rebuffed my efforts to see them until it was made clear by Rosa's lawyer that I would be coming into a great deal of wealth; as soon as they knew, they oozed parental concern for my wellbeing and pretended to love me. I saw through their money-making façade and, disgusted with them, gave up my inheritance just to be rid of them. I left just days after they came, taking just enough money out of Rosa's lockbox to get to Hamburg, Germany.

There was no particular reason that I chose Hamburg as my escape, just that it was the first place I thought of. I lived in the red-light district of St. Pauli for three weeks on my own and worked as a waitress. By some miracle, I avoided most of the danger that would have plagued a lone girl of 16 in a foreign country known for its vices; I still thank heaven that nothing worse happened to me than what small things did. I was working at the Star Club on the Groβe Freiheit, a small, run-down street of strip clubs and bars. The Star, formerly the St. Pauli Star Cinemas, was a movie theatre owned by one Manfred Weissleder that had been converted into a club that hosted rock n' roll groups from England. It was there, amid the hookers and drunkards and slick beatniks, that I met the Beatles.


	15. Chapter 15

**_*Flashback to December 1962: Hamburg, Germany*_**

" _Mach schnell, Fraulein._ _Tabellen zwei und drei_."

I gave a hurried nod to the club manager, Horst Fascher, not bothering to answer verbally because I wouldn't be heard. The band was playing a loud, frenetic set tonight and the crowd was responding in kind. I walked over to the tables that Fascher indicated, running through my limited German vocabulary in my head. I knew enough now to fill orders, mainly because all anyone ever ordered was _bier_ , or beer. But should they ask for something else, I had to piece it together myself or enlist the help of Liesel, one of the other waitresses on my regular shift. She was patient with me and helpful if I needed it, but to ask her help was to risk Fascher's anger, and I didn't want my only friend in Germany to be out of a job because of me.

" _Guten abend_ ," I nearly shouted to the man at the first table. " _Was wirst du haben_?"

" _Bier_ ," he said gruffly, eyes on the band onstage. I breathed a sigh of relief.

" _Jawohl_ ," I said, turning to go to the bar and fill the order, elbowing my way through the crowd. I checked on the second table on my way to the bar, but the young couple at it didn't want anything. I took the first man his beer and set it on the table.

" _Warten_ ," he said to me, looking up with a glint in his dark eyes. I unconsciously took a step back.

" _Was zeit bekommt man von der arbeit_?" he asked.

 _Oh, great_ , I thought. I didn't know any word in that besides "you" and "work".

" _Vergeben, ich spreche Englisch_ ," I said, cobbling together something that I hoped conveyed "I don't speak German". The corner of his mouth curled up, his expression one of a taunting bully.

"Your German is _nicht gut_ ," he said mockingly. "I say, 'what time are you off'."

I drew back from him in disgust. "Your English isn't much better," I said. I turned and went back to the kitchen, chin up and confident; the truth was, though, that I was shaken up just like every time someone tried to hit on me.

In between filling orders, I stood by the bar and watched the band play on stage. I didn't usually get to see the nighttime bands, because I tried to only work the day shift. Nighttime in the St. Pauli was the time to be shut up at home, be it ever so shabby, away from the nightlife that populated even the quiet Groβe Freiheit. The Star Club was on the other end of the street from the Reeperbahn, the main street that led to the center of the city, but it still had a generous crowd every night.

But no matter how much I had tried, I couldn't get out of working tonight. Fascher made the schedule and for some reason had put me on the night shift with a set of waiters and waitresses that I barely knew. So I spoke very little, kept to the sides, and tried to only wait on tables where women were seated.

The band that night was the Beatles, a group that I knew had played both in Hamburg and England. They'd gone back and forth from Liverpool and St. Pauli since 1960, playing at clubs like the Indra, the Top Ten, and the Kaiserkeller. Of course, that was before I had even moved to Hamburg.

But I did remember them vaguely from the one time I went to the Cavern Club back in England; Aunt Rosa had to go to Liverpool to see her sister and took me with her, allowing me to go to the Cavern one night. They played there that night and made an impression on me, I supposed, but I only ever saw them that once. The thing that I most remembered about that night was a girl named Maureen, who made me help her get backstage so she could kiss the new drummer. I didn't get to meet any of them, but Maureen did get her kiss.

There were four boys in the band, their matching hair side-swept in the front and down to their collars in the back. They all started off the evening wearing suits, which I thought looked oddly smart and professional for a rock n' roll club, but had shed their jackets and vests as the night went on. Two played guitar, one played bass, and one played the drums. They were pretty good, I had to say, playing covers of familiar tunes from singers like Chuck Berry, Carl Perkins, and Fats Domino. Just then, however, they were playing something I was unfamiliar with, a real corker in Little Richard style. " _Well, my heart went boom_ ," the bass player sang, " _when I crossed that room, and I held her hand in mine!_ "

Besides being good musicians, they were all attractive as well; I was sure they had plenty of attention from the German girls who could afford to _sich verlieben_ , or fall in love, with young British boys.

When I got off work that night, around three in the morning, it was still crowded inside. Mostly it was young at students – "Exis" as they were called, short for "Existentialists" – and their friends. The band was playing just as steadily as the patrons were drinking, and one of the waitresses had popped open the Prellies to keep things going. I hadn't ever had any Preludin before, even though it was a drug that frequented the clubs of St. Pauli and everyone I knew here took it regularly.

I grabbed my coat and bag, pulling on gloves and a heavy scarf; it was mid-December and bitterly cold, especially at night. I stepped outside through the back door into the alley, taking a breath of the fresh, cold air free from the smell of smoke and booze. Snowflakes danced down in the orange light of the streetlamps, landing on the cobblestones below.

It was here that I finally had to face head-on a fact that I dreaded: I had nowhere to go. My landlady, a mean old woman who personified the English caricature of German hostility, had evicted me this morning without notice; I had failed to pay the rent that mysteriously went up every week. I couldn't pay what she asked and was unceremoniously thrown out on the streets. Everything I had to my name, albeit not much, was in the bag I now carried across my shoulders.

I had no answers, no plan of action. How I wished I was going home to my own bed, watched over by someone who loved me. I sighed, my mind wandering wistfully to my warm home in London, where my dear Aunt Rosa lived in memory.

I shivered, reality making a rude interruption in my happy thoughts. My parents had taken possession of the house and everything in it when I'd left; even though it was legally mine, they were named the "overseers" until I was eighteen. I felt as though everything they touched, they turned to rubbish. They had succeeded in ruining the only home I ever had.

I stood by the back door, dejectedly huddling into my jacket collar for warmth, watching my breath turn to vapor in the air. I could ask to stay at the Star, but it wouldn't do any good; I had asked to board when I first came to work there, and Fascher's immediate answer was no. There was no way I could get a hotel room on what meager funds I had on me.

I slid down the brick wall to sit on the cold cobblestones, curling my knees to my chest. I buried my face in my hands, feeling my eyes pool. What had I been thinking to come here? I was stuck between a rock and a hard place and despair was quickly taking over. It didn't hurt as much when I worked, but now that I was sitting in a dark alley with nowhere to go, I cursed my parents with fiery vehemence.

Just then, the back door swung open, the noise from inside pounded out into the quiet street. One of the band members stepped out, a cigarette held between his teeth, a matchbook in hand. He struck a match against the bottom of his shoe and lit his ciggie, taking a drag.

He noticed me just as he waved out his match; he jumped a little, startled.

"Bloody hell," he said, his Liverpool accent unmistakable. "Didn't even see you there."

. I didn't say anything, wishing he would leave me alone.

"Are you alright, love?" he pressed. I looked up then, at once suspicious and curious. He was a good-looking fellow, I guess. Tallish, with dark hair and brown eyes in a shape that gave him a puppy-esque sort of expression. He looked at me with his brows raised in concern, waiting for an answer.

"I'm fine," I said grudgingly, pressing my knees closer.

"Say, you're the waitress from inside," he continued. "What are you doing out here? It's the bloody middle of the night."

I frowned. "I like it."

One of his brows went up in question. He brushed white snowflakes off his black bomber jacket. "It's snowing," he told me.

"Astute observation," I snapped. "Mr.…?"

"McCartney," he said brightly. "Paul McCartney."

I shook my head to clear it. "Astute observation, Mr. McCartney," I repeated.

He stuck his free hand in his coat pockets, scuffing the toe of his shoe against the sidewalk. He seemed completely at ease with me here, weird as the situation was.

"Have you got anywhere to go?" he asked, taking a pull from his cigarette.

"That's none of your business," I said. Hopefully I could deter him from trying to hit on me. I had no patience for that sort of thing that night.

He shrugged. "Well, it's going to be awful cold out here all night," he said. "Maybe Fascher would let you stay inside."

"I've already asked," I told him despite myself. "He said no."

His brow furrowed. "So you've really got nowhere to go?"

I shook my head, not knowing why I was telling him this.

He seemed to mull something over. "Well, you could come with me."

I gaped at him. "Who do you think I am?" I asked, half-furious and half-embarrassed. Did I really come across as some street-corner hussy?

He flushed deeply as I said it, immediately opening his mouth to amend his question.

"No – hell, I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I didn't mean that at all. What I meant was – well – me and my mates are staying at a hotel just up the road."

When I didn't say anything, he continued.

"We're almost done with our set here," he said, still sort of flustered. "We'll be heading out in ten or fifteen minutes. Since you've got nowhere to sleep and its freezing out here, you could stay, erm, with us." His eyes widened. "I mean, not _with_ us, but, you know, just have a place to stay for the night that's off the streets."

I considered him wonderingly. Part of me – most of me, really – wanted to take him up on his offer. He seemed nice enough, and from what I had heard, he and his mates had a reputation up and down the Reeperbahn for being polite and well-behaved young men compared to the standard rock n' rollers. He certainly was mortified that I thought he'd been insinuating a…liaison. And what he said was true – even I had to admit that I wouldn't last long out here in this wintry night. Besides, I could be attacked by any number of prowlers on the streets.

But what did I really know about this fellow? _He_ could intend any number of things upon me. And it wouldn't just be him at the hotel, but his three other bandmates – four guys to one girl was about as bad of odds as you could get. I shouldn't. I wouldn't.

"We're harmless, I promise," he said, as if reading my thoughts. "The lads won't hurt you. We'd never think of such a thing."

What choice did I have? I looked up him, pleading silently with him to be worthy of the great trust I was about to put into him.

"You won't… try anything, will you?" I asked quietly.

His face softened, possibly realizing my fear. "I swear it," he said. "You'll be perfectly safe. You can stay by the phone if you'd like, or the door. You can make a quick getaway if you feel like you need to."

I smiled a little, thinking to myself that I should have had that idea myself. He took his free hand out of his pocket and offered it to me.

"Come on," he said around his cigarette. "Let's get inside before we catch cold."

I let him help me up. I brushed snow off of my jacket as he crushed his ciggie with the heel of his boot.

"Oh, I forgot to ask - what's your name, love?"

I looked up at him. "Jennifer," I said. "Jennifer Dawson."

Back inside, I stood to the side of the stage as they finished their set. Apparently it would be their last stay in Hamburg; with the recent success of their single, _Love Me Do_ , in the UK top ten charts, they would be returning to Britain to record and tour.

When they finished, followed offstage by a raucous round of applause that echoed off the stone walls, Paul nodded to me and indicated that I should go backstage as well. I pushed off the wall and followed, a bit wary but having no other feasible options.

I followed them into a dressing room which, from the looks of it, they all shared. Guitar cases, amps, and other paraphernalia were scattered around the room. I stood by the door, nervously twisting my hands together, trying to be as unobtrusive as I could.

The three other boys seemed not to have noticed my presence. One sat on a cluttered countertop and tuned his guitar, impatiently brushing his dark hair out of his eyes. Another was winding up the amplifier cords; he looked particularly annoyed, his eyes constantly narrowed as if in disgust. The third was packing up the drum kit, the rings on his fingers making a metallic sound every time they met with the cymbals.

Paul came over to stand by me, bouncing on the balls of his feet, and cleared his throat. None of the other boys paid him any attention. He frowned.

"A- _hem_ ," he said expectantly.

They did look up then, their expressions ranging from confusion to exasperation. When they saw me, though, their expressions became hard to read.

"Lads," Paul said in a conciliatory tone. "This is Jennifer Dawson. She's got no place to stay tonight, so I said she could bunk up with us."

They didn't say anything. After a few seconds, the drummer spoke up.

"Well, sure," he said slowly. "If she's got nowhere to go. We've got plenty of room."

"Thank you," I said then, feeling the need to make a good impression. "I… I don't know what I would have done otherwise."

"Probably frozen to death," said the annoyed-looking one. With the way he said it, I couldn't tell if he was joking. He walked up to me and stuck out his hand, looking at me with his narrowed gaze. "John Lennon."

I took his hand, wary, but shook it just the same. "Pleasure to meet you, John," I said. "And you're right, I would have frozen. You're all very kind to give me somewhere to stay."

"Ah, don't mention it," the dark-haired one said, nudging his way past John to shake my hand after he'd put up his guitar. "I'm George Harrison."

I nodded. "George."

"He's the baby," Paul informed me. My brows went up.

"Is that so?" I said, unsure what to do with the information.

"Sure is," the drummer said, pushing George out of the way so he could introduce himself. "And I'm the oldest, and the handsomest. Ringo Starr, how d'you do."

We walked up the Groβe Freiheit and turned left onto the Reeperbahn, the boys chatting away with each other as we did. Whether or not it was intentional, I was sort of in the middle of the group, rendering me protected from the characters that populated the street.

"So, Jennifer," George said, slowing his pace so we'd be side by side. "How do you like it here in Hamburg?"

I clasped my hands together. "Um, it's alright. The, uh - it's really cold here."

 _That was eloquent_ , a sarcastic voice in my head said. I mentally kicked myself.

"Can't argue with that," George said, sticking his hands in his pockets. "Where are you from originally, if you don't mind me asking?"

I bit my lip, unsure how to answer without revealing too much about myself. "England," I said, a little too quickly. "London, actually."

Well, I wasn't lying. But my accent had stayed stubbornly American throughout my life in London, and from George's expression, I could tell he thought I was bluffing.

"Is that right?" he asked slowly. "Well, we're all from Liverpool, which isn't very far from – "

Someone nudged me. I looked to my left. It was John.

"Speak German," he said quietly, keeping his eyes forward.

I frowned. "What? I don't – "

"Just do it," he ordered, still under his breath. "Keep walking, just speak German. Whatever you know."

I looked back nervously at George, who nodded at me to do as John said.

"Ah, I'm _eine kellnerin am_ Star-Club," I said, telling them what my occupation was even though they already knew. " _Mein_ _boss ist_ _Herr Fascher_."

I saw the boys cast a few glances towards a police officer under the Kaiserkeller Club marquee, and was immediately concerned. What did they have to hide from the police?

" _Magst du deinen arbeit_?" Ringo asked me.

I gave him a panicked look, not understanding what he said. " _Nein_ ," I said, hoping it made sense as an answer.

We walked past the police officer then, keeping a steady pace, trying to be natural and inconspicuous at the same time. It didn't work.

" _Aufhalten_ ," the policeman said, stepping out in front of us. I could deduce that he meant for us to stop; we did. He scrutinized us, his gaze lingering on my longer than any of the boys. My heart like to beat out of my chest.

" _Ausweis_ , _bitte_ ," he said, abruptly turning to George. George's expression turned indignant as he reached inside his bomber jacket and withdrew a set of identification papers. Understanding dawned as I watched the police officer take George's papers, and I immediately felt sick – I was a minor, a legal resident of England, and sorely lacking in identification papers. The German police could put me in jail or have me deported if they knew.

I stole a glance at John, who was watching the police officer with casual interest. I realized now why he'd asked me to speak German – with luck, we'd be able to fool the officer into thinking I was a resident of Hamburg. Sure, he could still get me in trouble for being out after the _ausgangssperre_ , or curfew for kids under 18. But it wouldn't be near as serious as being discovered without papers.

The officer shuffled through George's papers and grudgingly handed them back. He looked back at me, opened his mouth to say something, and John cut across him.

" _Wir waren gerade auf dem weg_ ," he said, putting a hand on my shoulder, " _zu meiner Schwester nach hause, Offizier_."

The officer frowned. " _Mach schnell_ ," he said. We all nodded eagerly.

He waved us on our way, and we didn't stay any longer than we had to. A little ways up the road, when we were out of sight of the officer, John's hand dropped from my shoulder to his side. George still seemed put-off by what had happened.

"Askin' me for my bleedin' papers," he grumbled. "I'm 19 years old and they still think I'm a minor."

Ringo ruffled George's hair affectionately. "Aw, don't be sore, Georgie. S'just one officer. All the girls think you're 20."

"Come off it," George said, though his tone suggested that he appreciated Ringo's reassurance. "You don't have to worry a thing about it, Rings. Everybody _knows_ you're 23."

Ringo smiled smugly, and Paul pushed him playfully.

"Wouldn't let them forget it," Paul joked.

As they continued to banter and joke, I turned to John. He was lighting a ciggie and seemed not to notice that I'd turned to him.

"What did you say to the police officer back there?" I asked.

He glanced down at me, his brows going up in mild surprise. He took a drag.

"I told him you were my sister and we were just getting you home," he said.

"Say that a lot, do you?" I asked cynically, thinking of the many girls that these four boys must have brought home during their sojournings in Germany. It didn't seem to bother him; he gave a short laugh.

"I'm actually married," he said.

"Really?" I asked, surprised and interested despite myself.

He shrugged. "Yeah. Since August. She's in England."

"Well," I said, not really knowing what to say. "Congratulations."

He looked as if he were trying to think of something to say, but then came to a halt with the other boys.

"Here's where we're staying," he said, indicating the Hotel Pacific doorway in front of us.

I nodded, braced myself, and went inside.

Up on the 7th floor, where they were staying, Paul nodded to me to go in the first room we came to, which I found out was George's. John, George, and Ringo followed me into the room, and I stood to the side to await for further instructions. It didn't seem to bother the boys that I was there; they might have been too tired to care. They found somewhere to sit, their faces shadowed with exhaustion.

Paul disappeared into the next room, leaving me with Ringo, John, and George.

"Take off your shoes and stay awhile," George joked to me. "Sit anywhere you like. We won't bite. Will we, Ringo?"

"Haven't yet," Ringo agreed from an armchair across the room.

As I sat down on the other bed, opposite George, I watched John as he sat at the desk in the corner of the room. He was bent over a piece of paper, his pen scratching against the paper in a rough scrawl as he squinted at the words.

"What's he so angry at?" I asked in an aside to George. George turned his head to me.

"Sorry?" he said. I met his dark brown eyes.

"Is John angry about something?" I asked again. Then, on a sudden and alarming inspiration, "Is it me?"

George looked over at John, confused, but realization crossed his face almost immediately.

"No, he's not mad," George said. "He just looks like that 'cause he hasn't got his glasses on. He can't see a bloody thing without them."

As if on cue, John put down his pen with a little more force than strictly necessary.

"Bloody hell," he grumbled in frustration, fishing in the inside pocket of his jacket and pulling out Buddy-Holly style glasses. He put them on, blinked a few times, and went back to his paper and pen. He did look much more relaxed with his glasses on. I breathed a sigh of relief.

"God, I'm so wired," George said, almost to himself, rolling onto his back on his bed. His fingers tapped a staccato beat against his stomach.

"It's 'cause you ate so much Preludin," John said without looking up from his letter. "Didn't you end up having four or five pills? That's more than you usually have."

"Won't it wear off?" George asked. "I mean, in time for me to sleep?"

"No telling," Ringo said. "But we don't have to be anywhere tomorrow. We've got the next two days off, remember?"

"Oh, yeah," George said, remembering something. "Well then, a very happy Crimble to Eppy and his guys."

As he said it, I remembered with a sad sort of heaviness that it was now very early on Christmas Eve. I had to bite my lip to keep from crying, suddenly. I should be home with Aunt Rosa, sitting by the fire and reading _A Christmas Carol_. I shouldn't be in a hotel room with three strange boys in Hamburg, Germany.

Just then, Paul came back in, a change of clothes in hand. I hurriedly brushed a hand over my cheeks, catching any tears.

"You can have my room, Jennifer," Paul said to me. "It's the one right after this."

I looked from Paul to the other boys, who hadn't reacted to what Paul said.

"I – I didn't, I mean…" I stammered, feeling guilty. I hadn't meant for him to be inconvenienced at all. "I couldn't just take –"

"Nonsense," Paul said firmly. "I'll bunk up with Ringo."

"You will, will you?" Ringo joked, throwing his arm over his eyes. "You better not keep me from my beauty sleep."

"He needs it, too," John said, bringing a round of tired laugher from the boys and a smile from me.

"Well lads and lady, I'm going to try to get some sleep," George said, sitting up and addressing us. "You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here."

With some good-natured complaining, we got up and filed out into the hallway.

"Close the door, would ya?" he asked to no one in particular, turning out the lamp on his bedside table. Paul took hold of the door handle.

"Sleep tight, Georgie," he said in a sing-song voice. George's laughter came from the dark room.

"Get outta here, McCartney," he said affably.

Paul chuckled as he closed the door. "You're room's just here," he said to me, nodding at the next door to the left. "What time would you like to be gotten up?"

"Um, eight," I said tiredly, dreading getting up in just five hours but knowing I couldn't inconvenience them any longer than I had to.

"Bloody hell," Ringo said with a laugh. "There's no way Macca'll be up at eight in the morning."

"Maybe eight at night," John agreed with a tired smile.

"How about ten?" Paul asked, running a hand over his face. "Or eleven, or twelve…" He yawned hugely. "Or whenever."

I breathed a laugh. "Ok," I said. "Whenever works."

"Goodnight, then," Paul said to us, echoed by Ringo, John, and myself. I went into the room, not registering anything about it, and crawled into bed without even taking off my jacket. My last thought before I fell asleep was that I wasn't wary of these boys anymore. The first inklings of the deep bond of trust and love I would have with them were making inroads, starting on that very first night in Hamburg.

 ** _*End of flashback*_**


	16. Chapter 16

"You don't have to do much, Jenny," Paul was saying. "They might ask you a few questions, but you just answer them honestly and that'll be alright."

I nodded, numbly accepting every instruction I was given. For some reason that I couldn't understand, the impending police investigation was causing me great anxiety. Maybe I was afraid they'd find something they didn't like – or perhaps I was upset that they were going to be in my flat at all.

Paul and John were already here, and we were still waiting on Ringo and George. Cynthia and Maureen wanted to be here and couldn't – Mo was working and Cyn had to stay home with Julian, who was sick. I stood in the corner of the living room, noting Paul and John's distinctive nervous habits – John's hand kept going to his face to adjust his glasses, even though he wasn't wearing any; Paul tapped his mouth with his fingertips.

We all jumped when the door opened, poised to launch into our nervously rehearsed speeches to the police. We relaxed as George came in, followed by a pale-faced Ringo.

"Wowza, Rings," John said. "You look awful."

Ringo shook his head. "I've got a bad cold or something, I dunno," he said, his voice hoarse. "Don't get too close. We can't have us all sick as dogs to kick off – oof!"

Completely ignoring his instructions, I gave Ringo a hug before he'd fully set foot in the doorway. I felt the heat of his fever as he hugged me back slowly, hesitant to have too much contact but probably knowing I needed it.

"Don't listen to a word anyone tells you, do you?" he said affectionately.

"Thank you for coming even though you don't feel well," I said sincerely.

"Aw, anything for you, Jenny," he said. I gave him a small smile, knowing he meant every word.

"And thank you all as well," I said to George, Paul, and John, knowing to include them in my thanks. Despite anything they said to the contrary, I was their darling and they were all very jealous of my affection. "You don't know how much it means to me that you're here."

"We didn't have anywhere better to be," George joked.

We all laughed, relieving some of the huge tension that weighed on us.

Just then, the door opened for the second time. We all turned towards the door; the adrenaline rushing through me was making me sick. A solitary police officer – or Sargent, rather, I noticed by his badge – came through the door.

"Bernie!" Paul exclaimed. "God, Bernie, I'm so glad it's you."

It felt like we all heaved a great sigh of relief on seeing who the policeman was: Sgt. Bernard Clifford of the London Police Department. He was a good friend of ours and a personal security guard when times called for it – he'd been the one in charge of our sendoff to the Bahamas. That it was only him coming to investigate was more than I could have hoped for.

"Morning, everybody," he said pleasantly, stepping over the threshold. He shook hands with the boys, each thanking him for coming out. He took his hat off and gave me a smile.

"No need to be worried or nervous," he told us, in that way that doctors speak to their patients that was immediately soothing. "I'll just have a look-see around, make sure nothing's hazardous, and be on my way to file the report."

"Should we show you around, or…?" John asked, unsure.

Sgt. Clifford shrugged. "You can if you want, but I can check it quick and not have to bother you all." He gave me an apologetic look. "I am sorry you had to go through all this rubbish, Miss Dawson."

Gratitude rushed through me. "Well, at least it was you who came out, and not somebody we didn't know."

He smiled. "Happy to be of service."

Sgt. Clifford was as good as his word. He checked what he needed to check and was headed back towards the station in half an hour. We all breathed easier when he left, knowing that the dreaded investigation was over. The boys seemed particularly relieved – they were really worrying about having to leave before it happened. It was only three days now until they left for Denmark to start their tour, and they wouldn't be back until late July.

Although we no longer had the investigation pressing on us, I was still bombarded by fans, press, and the like. It seemed like the front entrance to the apartment complex was always crowded with people waiting for me to step out into the press feeding frenzy. It made Maureen's daily walk to work frustrating and some days nearly impossible; I was, of course, awash with guilt about it even though she was very sweet and understanding. I appreciated and needed her support, but I knew I couldn't continue to inconvenience her. So I called John, as I did in almost every stressful, overwhelming situation, and asked his almost always brilliant advice.


	17. Chapter 17

I stood in the doorway of the living room at 13 Emperors Gate, John and Cynthia's flat in Kensington. John had phoned over to mine and Maureen's flat very early the morning after we'd talked and told me to pack up anything I would need for an extended stay with Cynthia. I didn't ask any questions, being too tired and emotionally drained to really register what he said, and did as he told me. John picked me up; I didn't wake Maureen, but left a note telling her where I'd gone.

Now I was here, in a place I'd been a hundred times before, and I felt inexplicably shy and uncomfortable. I glanced at my reflection in the foyer mirror – I was a sad, diminutive figure with shadows under my eyes, prizes earned by many sleepless nights.

"Come and sit," John said, his voice quiet for fear of waking the baby, drawing my attention back to my surroundings. He sat on the couch, the early morning sun filtering through the shades on the windows and giving the room a greyish hue.

I did as he said, sitting on the edge of the armchair across from him. John watched me carefully, like he was waiting for me to cry or something.

"Where's Cyn?" I asked quietly, hoping to divert his attention from me.

He relaxed somewhat, but I could still feel his concern for me. "She's probably checking on Julian," he said. "She'll be out in a minute."

After a few seconds, the lady in question came halfway through the kitchen door.

"I'll just be a second," she said. "I'm making some tea. Would either of you like some?"

"I'll have some," John said.

"Me too, thanks," I added.

A few minutes later, Cynthia came out with a tray of teacups in hand. It was mildly out of place for her to be around people in a dressing gown and no makeup, but she always looked beautiful no matter what she wore. She set the tray on the table and handed me and John our tea.

"You're a doll, Cindy, you know it?" John told Cynthia as she perched on the armrest of the couch next to him. She smiled, her cheeks taking on a lovely rosy hue that occurred whenever John complimented her.

"Anything for you, John dear," she said. "But tell me, what's this all about?"

John sighed, looking up at his wife. "I wanted to talk to you about Jennifer staying with you, here at the flat, while we're on tour."

Cynthia looked between me and John, confusion written on her face. "Well, of course she's welcome to," she said without hesitation, "but why?" She gave me a concerned look. "Have you had a row with Mo, or something?"

I shook my head, dreading retelling the story again. "No, my…"

John must've known that I didn't want to tell Cyn, because he took up right where I'd left off. He explained to Cynthia about my parents, the press, the police, everything.

When he was finished, Cynthia looked over at me.

"Oh, Jenny," she said. "That's horrible! You poor thing!"

She set her tea cup on the coffee table and came over to me, kneeling in front of me and giving me a hug. I let myself be held, not knowing how much I'd craved Cynthia's love and concern. She was an older sister to me, one that I loved more than the flesh-and-blood sister I'd had.

"She can stay, then?" John asked, though by his voice I could tell he knew he didn't have to. Cynthia put her hands on my shoulders, holing me at arm's length.

"Don't give it another thought," she told me. "Of course you stay for as long as you want."

* * *

"Who's my favorite baby boy, huh?" I kissed Julian on his chubby cheek, hugging the one-year-old to me. "Oh Jules, I could just eat you up."

He giggled and clapped his hands together. "Jen," he said.

I grinned. "That's right!" I said.

I was playing with Julian at the kitchen table while Cynthia made breakfast. John came into the kitchen, his bakerboy cap already on. He was on his way out to go to a photo session for the _Saturday Evening Post_ with the other boys before they headed to a session at EMI, their last one before they left tomorrow.

John wrapped an arm around Cynthia's waist, pulling her away from the stove, and kissed her deeply.

"I'll see you right after the session," she said with a smile, pushing him away playfully.

He smiled back at her. "I'll be counting down the minutes, Miss Prim," he said, teasing her with a name he'd called her in art school.

He then came over to the table, putting a hand on my head in a brotherly fashion of greeting.

"Morning, Jen," he said.

"Morning," I said. He took Julian from me then, hoisting him up above his head.

"Who's daddy's little rock-n'-roller?" John asked, fatherly love and pride unmistakable in his voice.

"Dada!" Julian said gleefully.

John practically beamed. "That's right, buddy." He brought his son down and kissed him.

"Back to Aunt Jenny," he said, handing Julian back to me. He turned to face me and Cynthia. "See you in a bit, then."

"Bye," Cyn and I chorused as he left. I handed Julian the rattle he was reaching at and watched with a smile as he played with it. He was a handsome, sweet little tyke – taking after both of his parents in looks and mostly his mother in temperament. John's Aunt Mimi had told me that John was a real howler as a baby, which I could imagine, but Julian had been the exact opposite.

As I watched Julian play, I thought of how something – or someone, in this case – that wasn't intended had potential to bring such joy. Cynthia had discovered she was pregnant with Julian four years after she and John stared seeing each other, but both were scared at the prospect of being parents. They married not long after they found out, in a small, private ceremony at Mount Pleasant Register Office in London. And despite their initial fear, by the time Julian was born in April of 1962, they were ecstatic to bring home their baby son.

John and Cynthia weren't the only ones happy with baby Julian's arrival: George, Ringo, and Paul were over the moon about being "uncles". Aunt Mimi, who at first had not been supportive of John in his marital aspirations and especially disliked the circumstances that brought them about, fell in love with the little boy who was so like her own. Add Maureen and me, and I don't think Julian was found out of somebody's arms until many months after his birth, and then only because he was so eager to crawl. This small boy, with his bright smile and happy disposition, had brought such joy to our family that we couldn't imagine life without him.

"Breakfast, Jenny?" Cynthia asked. I looked up, her voice bringing me back to reality.

"Oh, yes," I said. "Thanks."

We had our breakfast and chatted away about our impending separation from the boys – the pros, the cons, and everything in between. After a while, Julian started to fuss for his own breakfast.

"Alright, John Charles," Cynthia said consolingly, getting up to make a bowl of dry cereal. "I'm getting it. Jenny, if you'll feed him, I'll wash the dishes."

I sat Julian on my lap and held a few of the cereal puffs in my hand, letting him pick them up one by one and eat them. I kissed his head, breathing in his sweet baby smell.

Just then, the phone rang from the living room. Cynthia went to get it as I stayed put with the baby.

"Hello?" I heard her say. "John? What is it?"

She hesitated, listening. "Wait – he's what? Collapsed? John, you're not making any sense, dear. Ok, yes. That's awful! Yes, we'll be down as soon as we can."

My mind was racing with possible scenarios as Cynthia came back into the kitchen, looking mildly spooked.

"Apparently Ringo's collapsed at the press conference," she said.

"What?" I said, standing, Julian still in my arms. "Why? Is he alright?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. John said they're taking him to University College Hospital."

"We have to go, then!" I said, fear shooting through me. I knew Ringo had been sick for a few days, but the fact that he'd collapsed was cause for huge worry on my part." What could have happened?"

"I don't know," she said worriedly. "But come on, we should go."


End file.
